


pack up all your bags (stay true to north)

by sweetestsight



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Mail Order Brides, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Smut, Yearning, single dad!roger, this baby's got it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: John is a lonely Californian rancher looking for a family. Roger is an upper-class single father fleeing scandal and tragedy. Driven to desperate measures, the two meet through a national matrimonial paper and Roger makes the long journey westward with his two children to start a new life. Signing a marriage certificate is the easy part. Building a life together—and gaining each other’s trust—is a lot more difficult.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 72
Kudos: 139





	pack up all your bags (stay true to north)

**Author's Note:**

> We have so many people to thank for this thing getting off the ground! 
> 
> A big thank you to everyone over at the DL server! You’re all fabulous people and I’m so glad I know you all! In particular: thanks to deHavilland for all her advice, and for letting me rant at her about relationship dynamics at what I’m pretty sure was a ridiculous hour; to iamnotbrianmay, sammyspreadyourwings, epherians, emma_and_orlando and ActualBlanketGoblin for weighing in on horse names and greatly improving the life of me, someone who can’t name literally anything; to everyone who I’m sure I’m forgetting to name, because this thing was truly a group effort; and a final very special thank you to Runningfortocome, for thinking up this wonderful concept and letting me take a stab at it! I definitely got carried away here, but I only hope I can do it some justice <3 
> 
> This takes place around (I guess?) mid-1870-ish? Who knows. The West is still Wild but we now have trains. Gay marriage is legal because I said so.
> 
> Title comes from Red Desert by 5sos, which inspired a lot of the mood of this fic. Give it a listen!

The blonde at the bar is making heads turn left and right, and really, who could blame them?

It’s not often that the little saloon in their dusty roadside town is this busy, especially this late at night. James can only guess that many of the landowners in the area have given their staff the night off in celebration of the looming harvest, or maybe it’s the landowners themselves who wanted to stretch their legs. The man at the bar certainly looks rich enough to be one.

His hair is shiny and long enough that it stretches past his shoulders. He’s wearing a vest with trousers to match, his sleeves rolled up casually past his elbows. He’s leaning over to talk to the bartender, and it’s only highlighting the delicate curve of his spine.

“Stop ogling,” Maria huffs at his side. “Like he’d even give you the time of day, anyway.”

“Like you’re so innocent yourself,” James mutters. “Besides, who _isn’t_ ogling him?”

There are only a scant few who aren’t staring at the man—and really James has to assume that they’re either blind or crazy, because anyone with eyes is bound to do a double take—if not for the undeniably pretty face than at least for the finery and the way the man carries himself.

One man who notably isn’t staring is the figure at the other side of the long table of ranch hands. He’s rather keeping to himself, hiding under his curly hair and sipping on a glass of water. James nudges him gently, raising his eyebrows as the man looks at him questioningly.

“Alright?” he asks.

The man nods—and now that James is looking at his face head-on he recognizes him vaguely as a local, though he can’t for the life of him remember who he works for. “Alright, thanks,” the man responds softly.

“Not drinking?”

“No. I’m actually here to babysit,” he adds dryly.

Before James can respond to that a familiar figure weaves through the crowd, swaying slightly on his feet and grinning as a few people cheer at his arrival. It takes a long moment for James to link the face to a name: Deacon, one of the younger ranchers in the area, who’s apparently in quite the jovial mood. He sits down heavily next to James, and Maria raises her eyebrows as she looks over at him.

Deacon does not look back. He’s much too busy smiling softly at the blonde at the bar.

James smirks. “You’ve seen him too, then?” he asks.

Deacon looks up, eyes wide. “Who?”

James snorts at his play at innocence. “That pretty blonde thing at the bar.”

“Pretty blonde thing?” Deacon echoes with a tiny smile.

“Yeah,” James replies. “Real looker. He’s prettier than half the girls on this side of the Mississippi, and he looks to be twice as rich.”

“You haven’t talked to him, I presume?”

Maria snorts at that, leaning forward so that she can talk to Deacon around James’ form. “Someone like that?” she scoffs. “He wouldn’t give us commoners the time of day.”

“What makes you so sure?” Deacon asks with a hum.

James laughs. “Oh, you think he’ll spend any time with you?” James asks, though he’s secretly mulling it over himself. If he could get five minutes of conversation with the blonde maybe he could win him over. Perhaps Deacon is an ideal candidate to test exactly how friendly the blonde might be. “I bet you your next drink that you can’t even get him to crack a smile.”

“Deacon’s married,” Maria scoffs.

James frowns. “So?” he asks. Like a marriage vow would even hold up in the face of such beauty and style…

“ _Happily_ married,” Maria says pointedly. “He won’t take you up on that.”

But Deacon seems ready and willing to defy expectations. He sits up, his eyes drifting back to the blond, and says, “Make it two drinks if I can get him to kiss me.”

James raises his eyebrows. No way is that going to happen; not in a million years. “Fine,” he says. “Have at it.”

John drains his whiskey and stands, walking toward the bar.

Maria shakes her head. “There goes the sanctity of a marriage vow.”

“Like it’ll even matter. He’s going to strike out and you know it.”

Across the table the curly-haired ranch hand snorts.

Deacon has found himself a seat at the bar beside where the man is standing, and James’ eyes narrow as the blonde turns to speak to him, one elbow leaning on the bar casually as he steps closer into Deacon’s space. Apparently the blonde is more friendly than he’d previously thought.

“What is it, then?” Maria asks their tablemate. “You think Deacon’s going to do it?”

“Of course he is,” the curly-haired man says with a wry smile.

Across the bar the blonde laughs—actually _laughs_ at something Deacon has said, his head thrown back and the sound ringing through the saloon while Deacon smiles at him warmly—and James frowns.

“Why are you so sure?” Maria asks.

The man shakes his head slowly. “That’s his _husband_ ,” he says.

James watches as the blonde leans in closer, smiling at Deacon all the while, the two of them lost in their own little world as they murmur something to one another. It barely takes a moment before the blond is leaning toward him, smiling against his mouth as he kisses him sweetly.

* * *

_Male, 21 years of age. Blond hair, blue eyes, 130 lbs and 5 feet 10 inches tall. A man from good upbringing, educated and well-mannered, strong and able-bodied. I am learned in household arts and can cook, clean, sew and otherwise manage the household. I am looking only for a new life for me and my two babies; and for someone to whom I can offer my love and my labor in return for taking us in._

_I am a young ranch owner in California, twenty years of age, five feet and eleven and weighing roughly a hundred fifty pounds, with a plot of a hundred and fifty acres of land, a herd of some six-dozen cows and a decently sized farm. I am looking only for someone to manage the household, to provide companionship and to bring a family back to the land._

* * *

It’s windy; gloriously windy, the morning air rolling in clean and cool off the sea and rustling the poppies in the grass. Bella loves it, tossing her head and sniffing around in the damp soil even as he tries to tug her head away. He lets her be, after a while. The dogs are picking up the slack anyway, running in dutiful circles around the herd and sticking their tongues out to taste the marine breeze.

He shouldn’t even be out right now, not really, but being around the herd calms him down. Today he’ll need all the calm he can get.

Today is the day.

“When are they coming?”

Brian is riding slowly up to him, still shaking off the dredges of sleep. His hat is hanging from his neck by its thin strap to rest against his shoulder blades, giving him an odd hunched appearance. Bella snorts quietly as Lyra noses her out of the way to get at the clump of grass Bella was poking at only seconds before. Brian huffs and shakes his head, curls swaying as he tugs gently at Lyra’s reigns, making a valiant effort to give Bella her space back.

“Noon,” John replies, looking away from the horses to eye the herd. All is well; they’re clumped together, grazing happily. Today is the first time three of their calves have left the grounds of the ranch, and they’re taking to it like ducks to water; the sight makes him smile.

Brian fidgets. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go get them?”

“I’ve got a few hours yet,” John replies, though mentally he flicks through his to-do list. The rooms had all been prepared to the best of his abilities, with extra quilts and new furniture from town. They have food in the pantry and water ready for baths, should the travelers want it.

Would they want it? What _would_ they want? He isn’t sure.

“Are you nervous?” Brian asks, as if reading his thoughts.

John sends him a glare from below the brim of his hat, though he knows it lacks any real heat. “No,” he says flatly. “Obviously I’m not nervous at all to meet my new family, who could literally all up and leave at a moment’s notice once they realize that life out here isn’t all that people out East make it out to be. I’m clearly doing just fine.”

Brian shrugs defensively, holding up his hands. “Alright,” he says soothingly. “I was only asking. And don’t say that. You know they’re going to love it out here.”

John just sighs. That’s the thing. He _doesn’t_ know.

He’s been exchanging letters with Roger for a little over a month. He knows all the basics about him, which is to say he knows enough about him to know that Roger is probably too good from him. He comes from a good family, he’s well-educated, he writes with perfect penmanship and seems to travel in only the most elite and erudite Virginian spheres of high society. Already John knows he doesn’t have much to offer in return: a new life, a dusty ranch, acres and acres of empty land and six dozen-odd cows. That’s it.

Unmarried father or not, he has no idea why Roger ever agreed to let John pay his way out here in the first place.

But it doesn’t matter, really. He’s sure that will all come out later. They’ll _talk_ about it later, and in the meantime John will give him everything he can possibly afford to, offer Roger’s children the best life he possibly can, and do his best to be a deserving recipient of Roger’s companionship. And he’ll hope that Roger doesn’t up and leave him before the week is through.

There’s no pressure.

The breeze strengthens, fog rolling over the sea like a wave of the ocean itself. He takes a deep breath of the salty air and then lets it out, Brian watching him all the while.

“I suppose perhaps I should go,” he says slowly. “I don’t want to be late.”

Brian casts him a sidelong smirk. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

And that’s how he finds himself an hour away from the ranch, sitting in his best wagon in front of the train station with plenty of time to kill before the train is even set to arrive.

He has more than enough worries to fill the time. He’s practically petrified, in all honesty. There’s a reason he loves his ranch so much; he loves being alone, being at peace with the land and the animals.

He just doesn’t like being _that_ alone.

He doesn’t always give a good first impression, and he knows that about himself. He’s too quiet, too strange and gangly and young. He hasn’t found someone to settle down with in this long, and if it wasn’t for the matrimonial paper through which he’d met Roger that would probably still hold true. He’s almost too prepared for Roger to take one look at him and get right back on the train, children in tow.

The minutes slide away until finally he sees smoke rising in the distance. He huffs, mentally scolding himself as he slides out of his seat and starts toward the station.

The train is stopping by the time he arrives. He searches for Roger’s head in the crowd; Roger had sent a photograph of himself with one of his letters, but John isn’t quite sure if he’ll recognize him in person. The black and white had hinted at light hair and lighter eyes, but try though he might he can’t quite translate the image to what Roger might look like in the flesh.

And then through the crowd a man approaches him, and his heart stops.

It has to be him; it absolutely has to be. If the children weren’t a dead giveaway—a young girl clinging to Roger’s hand and an even younger boy propped up on his hip—then John wouldn’t even believe it. Their clothing is finely made, the silk glittering in the sun. They stick out like beacons in the crowd of dirty miners and ranchers, and that’s without even touching on Roger’s beauty in and of itself: blond hair neatly tied back, wide blue eyes dazzlingly bright and innocent, jaw set into a fierce line. His suit is the height of east coast fashion and surprisingly loud, in lighter tones of tan and gold. His black velvet morning coat turns blue when it catches the light and somehow brings out the vibrancy of his eyes.

He straightens when he catches sight of John, the proud line of his posture softening slightly and his mouth ticking up almost imperceptibly as he starts toward him. John’s palms are sweating and his mouth is as dry as the desert. He fidgets for a minute, forgetting his manners before taking his hat off politely and holding it to his chest. For some reason that just makes Roger smile even more, and he gulps hard around the racing of his heart.

“John Deacon?” he asks as he approaches, his voice soft and raspy and his accent boarding-school polished.

“Roger Taylor,” John manages to sigh, taking the pearl-buttoned gloved hand that Roger stretches out to him and brushing his lips over the back of the soft leather politely. He holds Roger’s gaze as he does it, and something on his face changes; something between surprise and satisfaction flits across his eyes. “How was the journey?”

“Long,” Roger sighs. “I can’t thank you enough for paying for our way out here. You’re a gift from god.”

“It was the least I could do,” John replies bashfully. He looks down, noticing the girl looking up at him, still half-hiding behind Roger’s leg.

Roger sighs again softly, a gentle smile on his face as he places his hand lightly on her back. “The sleepy one is Louis, and this is Eliza. Eliza, this is John. Remember what I told you? We’re going to be living with him now.”

“Hello, Eliza,” John says, subconsciously imitating Roger’s soft tone as he sends her a smile. “I’m so excited to have you three here. I really hope that you’ll like it.”

Roger rubs her back softly. “Honey, John has been very generous to bring us all out here,” he murmurs as she ducks further behind his leg. “Can you thank him for me?”

“It’s alright,” John says immediately. “It’s been a long journey. I’m sure they’re tired.”

Roger sends him an exhausted smile, hiking the boy further up on his hip. “I’m sorry. I assure you they’re usually better-mannered.”

“They’re little ones. They don’t need to be well-mannered,” he reasons, and Roger looks a bit dumbfounded. “I’ve got your rooms all prepared. All three of you can sleep the afternoon away if you’d like. I know it’s a hard journey.”

Roger frowns as if John has slapped him, and he wracks his head as to what he might’ve said wrong. Has he been rude? Should he be doing more to help?

Of course he should. _Shit._

“Where are your things?” he asks Roger.

Roger starts. “Just there,” he says, nodding to a trunk sitting beside the cargo car. “I’ll go—”

“Let me,” John says quickly, immediately starting toward it.

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly—”

“You’ve got your hands full,” John says, sending him a sunny smile. And really, the trunk is about as big as he is and probably twice as heavy, but the wheels on the bottom at least allow him to drag it forward toward the wagon. Roger watches him do it, his expression somehow torn as he holds Louis closer.

Maybe Roger wanted to carry his own things. Maybe there’s something delicate inside.

But he can’t very well hold a baby _and_ a trunk, can he?

God above. John is already fucking all of this up.

Roger doesn’t say anything as John loads the trunk into the wagon. He’s busy settling the children into the seats, Louis immediately falling asleep against the cushions that John had stacked there before leaving the ranch. Eliza is no better, curling her arms around her brother and dozing off as the wagon begins rocking down the road.

Roger sighs as it begins moving, sending John a grateful smile. “Thank you for coming to pick us up.”

“Of course,” John replies. He isn’t really sure how Roger would have gotten to the ranch had he not been there, and besides, it’s just common courtesy. He keeps his thoughts to himself. “It’s the least I could do. Most people want to sleep for a week straight after making that journey.”

“I promise I won’t be doing that,” Roger says quickly. “Whatever help you need, I’m more than ready to assist. I don’t have much experience on ranches, but I’m a fast learner. I can help with any heavy lifting—”

“Please,” John says quickly. “Take at least a day to yourself. Besides, I have ranch hands for that.”

“I can clean and cook,” Roger presses. “I can bake, too. I can sew if you have sewing you need done.”

“And I’m very grateful for that, because my ranch hands are absolutely useless at it,” John says with a laugh. “It’s alright, though. It’s okay. Please. I’d rather that you’re well-rested after so long on the train.”

Roger doesn’t look assured at that; if anything he only looks more wary. “I’m here to provide you companionship,” he says quietly.

John pointedly ignores the twist in his gut at that, because he knows it’s not what Roger meant. Roger is here as his companion, yes; he’s here to provide him company, to fill the house with the noise and color that it’s so sorely lacking.

Roger is _not_ here for…that. And even if he was, John would be loathe to disrespect someone like him by assuming such a thing without any further encouragement.

“If you want to keep me company, you’re more than welcome to it,” he replies, sending Roger a smile that has Roger smiling nervously back. “I have a few smaller chores to get done anyway, and I’d love to get to know you better. Just please feel free to rest as much as you need to.”

Roger doesn’t reply, leaning back against the seat with a confused tilt to his mouth. It only makes John feel more off-kilter. He spends a long few minutes wracking his brain to try to figure out if what he’d said was in any way strange.

The two of them finish the journey in silence.

John is proud of his ranch, and he’s not afraid to admit it.

California is a great rambling beast of a thing, and his land sits somewhere near the middle. It rolls all the way to a series of cliffs which fall majestically into the sea, and the cows roam across all of it. The grass is green in the winter and a paler shade in summer, and that’s when the California poppies sprout—flaming orange things to match the color of the soil and the rocks and the sun itself, the kinds of flowers he’d never heard of out east and certainly not in England. In the north he has forests, great soaring redwoods underneath which mushrooms grow, and in the east rests his humble fields, the barn, the stables and the goats.

It had been too much land for him to manage on his own, so he’d brought Brian to live with him. Brian had brought Freddie, and Freddie had brought his knowledge of farming and winemaking—skills that he’d learned a ways north on a farm where he’d spent his teenage years. The vineyard is just outside of the house itself, the vines carefully starved of water through the summer and the fruit all but coveted by Freddie until he harvests it, mashing it carefully and bottling it in small batches to sell in the market and cushion the ranch’s income.

The house itself is a sprawling thing. It was a family home—it was _meant_ to be a family home, though circumstance had prevented it. Despite that he’s still in love with it: its mass of bedrooms, its massive kitchen and long dining table, its cozy parlor and the long second floor hallway with windows that overlook the pasture.

He’d set up a room for Eliza already, and he leads the three of them up to it first. The walls are painted a soft yellow to match the quilt on her bed, an old heirloom that had been stitched by John’s mother once upon a time.

“I wasn’t sure what colors you’d like,” he says to her as she walks past him, looking around with wide eyes. “We can change it all later if you don’t like it or if you want something different, or if you want to sleep with your dad we can move a bed in there. I put Louis’ crib in your room, Roger, but I have a bedroom set aside for him if he’s already used to sleeping on his own.”

“My room?” Roger asked, perplexed.

John nods slowly. “Yeah. It’s just down the hall, so they won’t be more than a few steps away. I’m sorry, if it doesn’t work out we can rearrange—”

“No,” Roger says quickly. “I—this is more than generous, John. I don’t know what to say.”

They’re interrupted by Eliza flopping down onto the bed, grabbing for the stuffed tan corduroy rabbit that John had left there earlier and tracing the pink ribbon around its neck.

Roger winces. “Eliza, honey, don’t grab things that aren’t yours.”

“No, it’s hers,” John says quickly. “It’s just something I saw at the market. I thought she might like it.”

“Thank you,” Eliza says from across the room. John blinks; it’s the first time she’s spoken, and her voice is almost as raspy as her father’s. “I love him.”

John lets out a breath. “I’m glad,” he says genuinely. “If you ever need anything just let me or your dad know, okay? We don’t have the same kinds of stores as they have in Virginia, but I can still try to find stuff for you. If it’s not around we can order it from out east.” When he looks at Roger he’s giving him the same dumbfounded look as before. He clears his throat. “Can I show you where your room is?” he asks.

Roger just nods. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Roger’s room is just down the hall, true to John’s words. It had originally been set aside as some sort of in-law suite. John isn’t sure why that was, but he can only be grateful for it now. It’s a huge space, with elegant oak floors and white-painted panels below the chair rail giving way to soft blue wallpaper. The room is more than able to accommodate the four-posted bed and crib side-by-side with ample space for the desk, set of chairs, armoire and dresser. Windows line two of the walls, with one side looking out on the pastures and the other on the vineyard.

“I didn’t know what would work best for you,” John tells him nervously as Roger steps past him into the space, Louis still perched on his hip. “If you want to move anything around just let me know.”

“No, this is perfect,” Roger says faintly, wandering over to the window as if in a daze. “I—God, John. It’s beautiful.”

“I got the crib from in town,” John says awkwardly, leaning against the door frame. “I didn’t know whether Louis would still need one, but I figured it would be better to have.” Roger wanders over to the piece of furniture in question, placing Louis down into the crib beside the soft fleece bear already sitting against the pillow. “There’s a wardrobe. You should have enough space, but if you don’t then let me know and we can fix that.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Roger says, and then to John’s horror his eyes grow wet and he turns quickly back to the window.

“I’m sorry,” John says quickly. “You must be tired. I’ll bring up some food for you and let you rest in the meantime.”

Roger just nods silently, a hand pressed against his mouth.

John backs rapidly out of the room, closing the door before leaning his forehead against it.

This is already going _great._

Brian and Freddie eagerly come into the farmhouse for dinner, curious about the ranch’s new residents. They needn’t have bothered. The Taylors are for all intents and purposes dead to the world.

Roger does sleep late the next day, and John is glad for it. The train ride from out east is long, and it’s even more exhausting in the less expensive seats toward the rear. The last thing he wants is for his fiancé to wear himself out after so much travel.

It’s not like he doesn’t have his own things to do, anyway. The grounds require extra attention, a recent windstorm breaking a fence out in the north side of the pasture, and with his favorite heifer due to give birth any day now tension is a little higher than usual. John can only blame himself for attaching extra sentimentality to the her, but it can hardly be avoided; she’s the only one left from his father’s old herd, and she’s his favorite because of it. Her old age only makes her pregnancies riskier.

It has him watching her like a hawk as she grazes on the sweet grass, Lyra’s hooves pounding against the grass a few yards away as Brian arrives back from lunch at the farmhouse. John turns to watch him approach, the dogs running around Lyra’s hooves eagerly.

“Alright?” he calls.

John nods. “Nothing new. You?”

“Your husband is up. Or fiancé?” Brian asks hesitantly. “I don’t know. He’d practically worked himself into a fright over how much he slept.”

“Did you tell him it’s okay?”

“Of course,” Brian says. “You can hardly blame him for being skittish, anyway.”

John shrugs. “There’s not much that can be done. I’m trying to ease him into it as best I can and give him space.”

“You better be,” Brian says, his eyes surprisingly serious, and John balks.

“Of course I am!” he says. “What’s that for?”

“It’s an odd situation,” Brian says again. “Isn’t it? Do you blame him for being worried about it? He’s at your mercy, John.”

“And I’m at his,” John huffs. “I want him to feel safe here. You know I do.”

Brian’s expression softens. “Maybe it’s a better conversation to be having with him.”

“Can you manage here?”

“Of course.”

“Alright,” he says softly. “Come get me if there are any problems.”

“You know I will,” Brian says.

They’re a ways out from the farmhouse, and John takes his time patrolling the perimeter before he comes back. He pauses near a particularly colorful patch of poppies, gathering them up into a bouquet to carry back to the house. When he finally reaches the stable, tying Bella up in front of the water trough, he can hear Roger singing inside the house.

The singing quiets immediately as John starts up the back stairs. When he opens the door it’s to the sight of Roger with his sleeves rolled up, his wrists and forearms on full display as he kneads a ball of bread dough. The whole kitchen is homey and warm, smelling thickly of yeast.

“John,” Roger greets quickly. “I’m so sorry I missed you earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” John says quickly, waving his hand. “I told you that you should get all the sleep you could, didn’t I?”

“Even so, I hate to waste the day away.”

“You hardly look like you’re doing nothing,” John says wryly, nodding at the dough. He places the flowers neatly into the milk jug by the window where they can catch the sun. “These are for you.”

He looks up just in time to see Roger blink in surprise. The flush of his cheeks highlights a smear of flour just below his cheekbone, and John has to fight the urge to brush it off for him. “Thank you,” Roger says softly.

“’Course,” John mumbles, feeling his own cheeks heat.

He pours himself a cup of old coffee from the pot on the stove as Roger rounds the dough off into a ball, placing it in a cast iron pan and sliding it carefully into the oven. When he brushes his hands off the excess flour flies into the air, catching the light from the window and highlighting the rays of it where they fall on Roger’s shirt. John swallows heavily and looks away.

“Where are the kids?” he asks.

“They’re down for a nap,” Roger tells him, wiping his hands off and sitting down across from John. “They usually sleep early in the afternoon for about an hour or so after I finish their tutoring in the morning.”

“Have you always taught them yourself?”

He nods. “Schools in Virginia are a little strict about the status of children. In my family’s circles it would have looked horrible to have them turned down from a private school like that, so it was always just easier—or at least, my father thought so—to homeschool them.”

John frowns. He knows only the basics of Roger’s situation from his letters: that Roger hadn’t married his children’s mother, that she had died giving birth to Louis, and that his family hadn’t been happy about his circumstances. “Your family didn’t approve of them?” he asks, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“It was because of their mother,” Roger says. “I told you we weren’t married, right?”

John nods slowly. “But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just get married and end the scandal?”

“They wouldn’t let us. She wasn’t of our class,” he says with a shrug. “They wanted me to leave her and let her raise Eliza on her own. I couldn’t.”

“You loved her,” John guesses.

Roger looks at him, defensiveness written all over his face, but John keeps his expression carefully open and soothing. Roger studies him, and a moment later he nods. “I did,” he says. “I wanted to do right by her—to do right by our _kids_ —and we were going to run away when she got pregnant the second time, but she was already having trouble. It was a hard pregnancy, and then it was a hard labor, and then I ended up a single father of two illegitimate children with nobody to turn to but a family who resented them for even existing.”

“Roger,” John says quietly, his voice hushed, but Roger just sends him a tired smile.

“I want you to know what exactly it is that you’ve offered me,” he says quietly. “Not just a fresh start, but a place for my children to grow up. A _name_ for them; a place in society for them. And that’s not even touching on what you’ve saved me from within my own family.”

“It’s the bare minimum that you all deserve,” he says. “I haven’t even done half of it, anyway. I don’t want to rush you into anything, Roger. It’s absolutely up to you, but the very least I can do is provide them legitimacy. Whenever you’re ready we can go down to the courthouse. Everything else can come later.”

“Everything else?” Roger asks with a frown.

“However you want to take this,” he says hesitantly, unsure of how to put what he means to words. “I feel like there’s so much I don’t know about you, and I want to learn. I want us to know one another.”

Roger nods slowly. “I want that, too. If it can all come later, then I’m ready to marry when you are.”

“You’re sure?” John asks.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” John says quietly, and Roger smiles hesitantly. “Okay, then.”

He wears his best suit to the courthouse. He can hardly compare to Roger, who looks like he’s worth John’s entire ranch and then some: a pale suit hugging the strong line of his shoulders, the silk pristine and shiny, his shoes the height of fashion and made of the softest leather. The kids are similarly dressed, Brian and Freddie at least mostly polished and cleaned up as they file dutifully into the courthouse as witnesses.

Roger’s penmanship as he signs his name on the certificate is looping and elegant, and John does his best to keep his own hand from shaking as he signs next to him. His cheeks immediately heat as the clerk tells them to kiss; it’s a boundary he doesn’t want to break, for all that he’s practically expected to.

Roger breaks his indecision. His eyes flit from John’s eyes to his mouth and then back, and he sends him a tiny smile before leaning forward and pressing their lips chastely together. It’s there and then over in barely a few seconds, but John has to work not to gasp into it. Roger’s lips are endlessly soft against his own, his breath warm when he sighs against John’s cheek, his eyes clouded and his eyelids heavy when he lingers as he pulls away.

He wants to do it again.

He wants to, but he doesn’t. He blinks the feeling away quickly, and Roger seems to understand because he steps carefully out of John’s space and holds out his arm, allowing John to slip his hand through and leading him out of the courthouse into the street below.

He can’t help but think that this isn’t how he ever thought his wedding day would go.

His parents had always had dreams of him getting married in the town’s church; the ceremony the two of them had missed out on years and years ago. They’d been more than bittersweet about the fact, the slight sorrow in their voices undeniable even when he was a child. His father had proposed to his mother back in England, with plans to marry her once they reached the United States; with storms wracking the Atlantic and seasickness weakening them both, they hadn’t been able to wait. They’d been married right there on the ship, the waves rocking the upper deck as the captain quickly recited the ceremonial words, his eyes worriedly fixed on the cloudy sky all the while.

His parents would never have expected this for him.

But it hardly matters; Roger’s arm is warm and surprisingly muscular beneath his hand, the soft silk of his suit wonderfully smooth beneath his callused palm. Freddie and Brian are trailing behind them, Brian helpfully leading Eliza along while Freddie scoops an exhausted Louis up and props him on his hip.

It’s not the ceremony he always dreamed of, but it hardly matters. He has a family.

They cook a wild turkey for dinner in celebration, a slew of vegetables and sides practically weighing the table down, the wine flowing more than freely. The kids turn in with the sun but the four of them stay up talking, Roger’s shoulders gradually relaxing as he sinks into himself, and the sight warms John’s chest in a way the wine never could.

By the time they finally turn in for the night the moon is high in the sky and Freddie and Brian are leaning heavily against one another as they make their way to the ranch hands’ house.

Roger disappears into his own room as John spends his time cleaning up the kitchen, putting food away and wiping down the table. By the time he’s ready to go upstairs the house is all but silent. The gap beneath Eliza’s door is dark, and when he passes Roger’s it’s to see that his is the same way. Satisfied that the house is at peace, he opens his own bedroom door, then freezes in the doorway.

There’s a fire crackling in the fireplace, the whole space warm and homey from its glow. The air smells clean, a window cracked open to let in a fresh breeze, and his bedsheets have been turned back.

Roger is sitting in front of the fire, his collar unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up and his shoes off. Roger’s skin is clean and glowing. Roger is here, on his floor, giving him a sinful look as John enters the room.

John chokes on his own tongue.

“I want to thank you,” Roger murmurs lowly, “for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Of course,” John says quickly. “No need to thank me. It’s just common decency.”

“It’s more than that.” Roger licks his lips, his eyes flicking to John’s mouth, and John gulps. “It’s a lot more than common decency. You’re a good husband.”

He has to viciously quell the wave of heat that rises up from his gut at that. _Husband_. Good lord in heaven.

“I’m only trying to do right by you,” he says lowly. “You and the kids.”

“I know,” Roger says, and then all at once he’s standing, practically pressed into John’s space. John can smell him this close up: soap, clean skin, the oil he dabs on after bathing that smells vaguely like musk and jasmine. “Let me thank you.”

“You don’t need to pay me back for doing things that I should be doing anyway,” John rapidly gets out, his voice rising to an embarrassing pitch as he leans backward. “I’m doing my best to be good to you!”

“I know,” Roger says again, a tinge of frustration in his tone. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“And this is what I’m trying to tell you,” John says, and he clasps Roger’s wrists gently in his hands when Roger reaches to wind them behind his neck. “Please. I barely deserve to have you here, let alone to have—to _have_ you,” he says, feeling his cheeks heat. “Don’t try to give me something I haven’t earned. Don’t assume that I would just want you for—for that.”

Roger frowns, studying his face. His eyes have flecks of grey in them this close up, and John can see the fine grain of his stubble. It sends another curl of heat through him, and he surreptitiously leans a little further away so that their bodies aren’t pressed quite so closely together.

“I don’t understand,” Roger murmurs lowly. “It’s I who hasn’t earned my place—who hasn’t earned your affection. I have so much to thank you for. There’s so much that I owe you.”

John shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. “No, not at all. You deserve so much more. You deserve happiness and safety in spades, not to be stuck out here on a ranch. You deserve an entire kingdom, and I’d give you that if I could.”

Roger shakes his head, brow furrowed, his eyes wet. “Do you not know what you’ve done for me? You’ve _saved_ me, and more than that you’ve saved my children— _our_ children. Did I not make that clear? Do you not see the gravity of that?”

“I don’t know what I’ve done, not exactly, but please know that it was the least I could do for you. That was the very least. I want to be worthy of you,” he says gently, pressing a reverent kiss to the back of Roger’s hand. “What you’re offering is something I have not earned.”

“Why did you bring me out here, then?” Roger huffs. “Why even bother?”

John blinks at him. “To marry you.”

“And you’ve done so,” Roger replies, his boarding school accent slipping slightly as his thicker southern drawl makes an appearance. “I’ve married you. My children and I carry your name and yet you won’t let me kiss you, won’t even let me lie with you—”

“Because I want a companion,” John says faintly, “not a loveless marriage. I don’t simply want someone to _lie_ with, Roger, or—”

“You still believe in romance, then?”

“Yes!” he snaps. “Yes, I do! I want someone to build a family with and if that’s not you then fine, but it doesn’t change the fact that that’s what I believe!”

Roger looks at him like he slapped him, his wrists still held in John’s hands, and all at once he realizes his own mistake.

“That’s not to say I would send you away,” he says quickly. “I would _never_ , do you hear me? You’ll always have a place here, and the kids will, too. I would never make you leave.”

Roger is still watching him though, his eyes blank and distrusting, and John feels his heart sink.

“Listen to me,” he says, lowering his voice again until it’s gentle and soft. “We’re in a unique situation, you and I. Aren’t we?” He tries for a gentle smile, but when Roger doesn’t return it he lets it fall. “Roger, my priority is making sure that you’re comfortable here and that the kids have a stable place to grow and become adults. If you don’t love me then that’s fine—”

“Who said I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he says again, “just like it’s okay if you fall in love with someone else. It’s all alright, and we’ll figure it out if it comes to that, okay? I’d much rather have a husband who is a friend but not a lover than the other way around.”

Roger turns that over in his head, his expression settling into something frustrated once more. “And if I do love you?” he asks.

“Then I need to give you something to love me _for,_ ” John replies, and he can’t hold back a quiet laugh this time as Roger only grows more irritated. He lets go of Roger’s wrists to tangle their fingers together, clasping their hands between their bodies. “Please,” he adds. “If that’s what you want, then at least let me do it properly. Let me court you.”

“We’re _married,_ ” Roger says.

“I know. Just—let me? Will you please let me?”

Roger sighs, and the look he sends John has his heart clenching. He can’t quite decipher it; something between longing and sadness. He leans forward again, and John doesn’t quite have the heart to push him away. Roger doesn’t kiss him, though. He just noses gently at the juncture of John’s jaw, a parody of a kiss. The impropriety of even that small gesture has John’s cheeks flaming.

The fine softness of his hair is tickling John’s nose, the expensive silky material of his shirt catching the firelight. He’s utterly ethereal, looking like he stepped right out of a high-society mansion somewhere, yet here he is with his toes digging into the threadbare rug covering up the scratched floor of John’s cluttered bedroom in his rundown old farmhouse. “I would be honored,” he breathes into John’s hair, “to be courted by you.”

John lets his eyes flutter shut. He savors it for a moment: Roger standing there, just barely in his space, their hands the only physical link between the two of them but the warmth of his body almost palpable.

And then Roger squeezes his hands once before letting go, and just like that he’s gone.

John stands there for a long time, watching the fire until it flickers from a gentle blaze to just embers. It’s only then that he crosses the room to his bed, laying down on top of the covers and willing the image of Roger crouching on his floor away.

Try though he might, it’s a long time before he manages to drift off to sleep.

Roger is up early the next morning, scrambling eggs on the stove and sipping from a cup of coffee as he chats in a smooth, rolling tumble of words with Eliza. The sounds are soft and rough, slow and quick, smooth and abrasive, and John pauses in the doorway to take it in.

“What are you saying?” John asks.

Roger jumps, smiling softly when he sees him. “Sorry. It’s French. We aren’t saying anything that can’t be repeated in English, I swear. I just want to make sure she keeps her skills up.”

John waves him off gently. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. It sounds pretty.”

“It starts sounding a lot less pretty when you know how to speak it,” Roger says with a tiny laugh.

John just smiles and pours himself some coffee. “What else do you teach them?”

“He’s teaching me how to write and how to count,” Eliza says.

“You’re learning how to write already?” John asks.

Roger shrugs. “I’m trying to imitate the pace at which I learned in school as a child. I’m not much of a schoolteacher, but I’m doing my best.”

“If you want,” John says quietly, measuring his words, “there’s a local school that we could send them to. I can’t promise it’s anywhere near the level of education you must have had in Virginia, but the teacher is kind and the class is small enough that she’ll be able to focus more closely on Eliza.”

Roger turns, blinking at him. “I suppose it would be the best option. They would both do well to make some friends.” He licks his lips. “Would you like that, Eliza? To go to a school where you can play with other kids?”

“I’d miss you,” she says, frowning.

“Well, I’ll be there to pick you up as soon as you’re done, and then we can spend the rest of the day together. How does that sound?”

“Can Lou come?”

“I think so,” Roger nods hesitantly. “Would you go if Louis came with you?”

“Yeah!”

Roger smiles softly before turning to John. “Would it be too much of me to ask that I still tutor them in the mornings? I want them to be able to learn French while they’re still young.”

“Of course,” John says quickly. “They’re your kids, Roger. You’re free to handle their education however you see fit.”

Roger nods. “Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” John tells him. He gets to work setting the table as Roger finishes cooking. “Where did you learn French, anyway?”

“I learned a little in boarding school,” Roger says. “That, Latin and Greek. I only became fluent recently.” He hesitates. “Their mother spoke it.”

John desperately wants to ask about her. Something tells him he’s walking on thin ice, though; something about the pain still present in Roger’s eyes, something about the hesitance with which Roger brings her up. He keeps his face carefully accepting as he finishes laying out the napkins. “Was she French?”

“Half French, half Portuguese. She spoke both.” He stirs the pan one last time, eyes trained on it carefully as he brings it over and begins doling out portions onto plates. “Anyway,” he adds, changing the subject, “I do think local school is a good idea.”

“I can ask around about teachers so you can meet with one, if you’d like,” John says. He shovels a spoonful of egg into his mouth, sighing at the fluffy texture.

Roger blinks at him, fork hovering in one hand. “So I can talk to them?”

He nods, frowning. “Would you rather not meet with them first?”

“No,” Roger says quickly. “No, of course I would. Of course. I just thought you would want to do it instead.”

“You’d know more about their education than I would,” John says with a frown.

“I know. I’d be happy to meet with them,” Roger says quickly.

Confusion itches at the back of his brain but he drops the point, settling and listening quietly as Eliza begins talking in the slow, smooth rhythm once more.

The morning goes by quickly, rapidly fading into afternoon.

John spends it sorting through the books, totaling calves and doing his best to calculate their overall income. Roger and Eliza’s chatter fades into white noise, soothing and rhythmic, and the hours slip away. By the time he’s putting on his boots and getting ready to go out Roger is lingering in the kitchen, watching him warily. The kids are already down for a nap, and something about Roger’s energy is restless without them there. John frowns at him for a long moment, unsure what to do.

A few days go by like that. John watches him fidget for three mornings in a row before he finally does something about it.

“Do you want to see the property?” he asks, and Roger immediately brightens.

He leads him through the vegetable patch first, pointing out the new sprouts of lettuce and tomatoes that are just beginning to pop up. Freddie is pacing through the vineyard a ways away, and John sends him a wave; Freddie returns it distractedly, too focused on the vines to give John any more of his attention.

Roger coos when they reach the chickens. He is charmed by the smaller chicks, and John grins as he watches him study them. He’s a little more wary of the goats, who bleat loudly as the two of them pass.

When they reach the stable his eyes widen.

“This is Bella,” John says, gesturing at Bella’s speckled head. She’s doing her best to force her face through the bars.

“She’s very pretty,” Roger says. “I’ve never seen a horse that’s spotted like that.”

“She’s an appaloosa,” John offers. “They’re not very common out east, I don’t think. They’re mostly good for farming. You can pet her if you’d like.”

Roger holds his hand out warily, recoiling a little when Bella snorts at him. When he finally lays his hand on her nose he grins, petting her soft coat gently. “Hi, Bella,” he whispers, and she paws the ground excitedly.

John smiles to himself. “She likes you,” he says. “You can ride her today, if you want. She’s really gentle. We’ve got a few other horses around for the carts. I can take one of those.”

Roger straightens, his eyes wide. “Oh. Okay.”

“Does that work?” John asks, frowning worriedly.

“Yes,” Roger says quickly, then grimaces. “No. I mean,” he starts, then pauses. “I’ve never really ridden before?” he says, and it comes out like a question.

John blinks. “Never?”

“No,” Roger says. “I didn’t really need to. We always had carriages. And there’s polo, I guess, but I never played.”

“Oh,” John says softly, mind turning that over. “Okay, that’s alright,” he adds when Roger winces. “It’s okay. I can teach you someday if you want to learn.”

“That would be great,” Roger says quickly. “I know I’m not much help on a ranch if I can’t even ride a horse.”

“Don’t worry about it,” John says quickly. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I’ll teach you eventually. In the meantime, you can ride with me if you’d like.”

Roger blinks at him. “With you?”

“Yeah. If you don’t mind, anyway.”

Ten minutes later he’s seriously regretting his offer.

Roger is leaning back against his chest, the heat of his body warm even through their clothes and his hair smelling like roses every time it tickles John’s nose. The two of them are swaying together slightly with Bella’s movements, Roger’s thighs strong every time they tense against John’s own, and.

He really didn’t think this through.

He’s a blushing mess by the time they reach the north side of the farm. Roger gasps when he sees the redwoods, craning his neck to look up at them. John can relate. He’s lived on the ranch for practically his whole life, and the sight of the trees still makes his breath catch.

“They’re a thousand years old,” John tells him. “People say so, anyway. Tallest trees in the world.”

“Can we go see them?” Roger asks softly.

Who is he to deny him anything?

They walk by foot along the edge of the trees, John leading Bella all the while. The air smells good today, moisture hovering on the edge of the wind. It’s going to rain later, and John makes a mental note of it. He hopes that Brian will bring the herd in without John having to warn him.

He doesn’t want to go home quite yet.

Roger’s eyes are full of wonder, a line of confidence returning to his shoulders as he treks along. “It’s really beautiful here,” he says softly.

John can’t help but smile at that. “Thank you,” he replies. He loves his ranch, and it always makes him warm when someone else feels the same. He’s a prideful creature through and through.

“Have you always lived here?” Roger asks.

“Ever since I was little,” John replies softly. “It’s my family’s old property.”

Roger must sense some of the sadness in his voice, because he doesn’t push the subject. Instead he pauses, crouching in the grass for a moment, and when he stands he has a bright California poppy held between his fingers.

“For you,” he says quietly, stepping toward John and carefully tucking it behind John’s ear.

John blinks in surprise.

Roger bites his lip in concentration as he makes sure the flower is secure. Finally, satisfied, he steps back and gives John a sunny smile.

John just shakes his head gently before letting a tiny laugh escape his lips. He kneels and picks another poppy. When he stands he tucks it into Roger’s shirt pocket, the petals a bright orange patch against the fine material.

“Now we match,” he says quietly, and Roger smiles and shakes his head.

It starts raining as they ride back to the house.

Brian is shutting the gate on the closed pasture as they arrive, the cows safely inside the barn. He looks up as they approach and then shakes his head in mock disappointment. John just raises his eyebrows, daring him to say something.

They ride straight into the stable, and he slides off Bella immediately before holding his hand out to help Roger. Roger takes it, his skin cold and wet against John’s own. He slips a bit against the stirrup as he dismounts, stumbling slightly into John’s chest, and John steadies him quickly with hands on his elbows.

He practically recoils as his hands meet Roger’s skin. “God,” he hisses. “You’re freezing, Roger.”

“It’s fine,” Roger says quickly. “Just a little wet, is all.”

“You’re going to get sick if you’re not careful.”

“No, it’s alright. I’m okay,” Roger says, though his teeth are chattering slightly. “You worry too much.”

John purses his lips. He starts on Bella’s halter, easily loosening the buckles of the worn leather before sliding the straps off her head. “How about you head inside?” he says. “I’ve got to get her settled, and I don’t want you to be waiting out here in the cold. Go dry off.”

Roger’s mouth flattens. “If you’re sure,” he says hesitantly. “I’d rather help you here, if there’s anything I can do.”

John shakes his head gently. “No, it’s okay. I can manage. Go ahead. Get some dry clothes.”

“Alright,” Roger says softly. “Thanks for showing me around,” he says with a gentle smile, before turning and heading out the way they came.

John takes Bella’s saddle and blanket off carefully before grabbing a brush. Her coat is still a little wet and she’s all the more irritated because of it, but she still pulls her lips back slightly when he comes over to groom her.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, combing through her coat carefully. “Good day, huh?”

She just snorts.

Hooves clatter against the concrete foundation of the stable as Brian rides in, looking a little disgruntled as he takes off his hat. The wide brim has shielded him from the worst of the rain, but the water has still soaked into the ends of his curls and left them hanging flat and sad against his collarbones. “Miserable weather, huh?” he asks, sliding off Lyra’s saddle. She flicks water off her ears, pawing at the ground playfully, and Brian hushes her softly as he tries to calm her down. 

“Thanks for bringing the herd in early,” John says. “I was going to come warn you about the weather, but it caught us by surprise as well.”

“I can see that,” Brian says with a shit-eating grin, eyeing the flower that John had forgotten until then was tucked into his hair.

He rolls his eyes. “It was a gift.”

“Orange isn’t really your color.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Brian laughs softly, leading Lyra into her pen and sliding her saddle off carefully. They work in companionable silence for a long moment, only broken by Bella’s quiet snorts and Lyra’s scraping hooves against the hay.

“I’m glad it’s working out,” Brian says finally.

John starts, turning to look at him. “What?”

“You and Roger,” Brian replies. “Or—it is working out, that is? It seems like you guys are getting along.”

John laughs dryly. “That’s the least I could ask for, isn’t it? Getting along with my husband.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Brian says gently. “I—you just seem like you’re going to be really good together. I didn’t really know what to expect when you told me you’d met someone, especially in those circumstances. I don’t know if I’d ever be able to fall in love with someone through letters like that.”

“I didn’t think I’d be able to, either,” John says softly. He pauses to stroke Bella’s speckled neck with his fingers, and she blinks at him slowly.

“I’m just glad it worked out,” Brian says. “That’s all I mean.”

“What do they say about counting chickens?” John murmurs. “He’s still not comfortable yet. Not entirely, anyway. We’re not quite there.”

“You’ll get there,” Brian says easily. “I know you will.”

“Since when did you become such a relationship expert?” John asks him. He hangs up the brush, giving Bella one last pat before stepping out into the hall.

Brian follows him. “Call it instinct, if you will,” he says.

John snorts, but he doesn’t say anything. He ducks his head as they walk back out onto the grass, wincing as the rain soaks into his hair.

By the time they get to the shelter of the back porch they’re both soaking wet again, and it’s a relief to walk into the warmth of the kitchen. He strips off his boots before he does, leaving them out next to the back door and then sighing as he loses the rain-heavy leather of his jacket.

If he feels cold, Roger looks impossibly worse.

His skin is pale and he’s all but curled in on himself at the table, his shirt traded for a thick woolen sweater and his hair falling in messy, towel-dried clumps. Despite that he smiles at John even through his chattering teeth.

“Would you two like some tea?” Freddie asks from in front of the stove. “I’m making some for this one.”

“Please,” John says, coming to sit beside Roger and taking his ice-cold hand. “I’m so sorry that I kept you out so late. If you get sick it’s my fault entirely.”

“I told you to stop worrying,” Roger replies, grinning at him.

Freddie rolls his eyes as he places mugs down on the table. He puts John’s down perhaps slightly harder than necessary. “John Deacon,” he says loudly.

John starts, looking up at him. “…What?” he says.

Freddie puts his hands on his hips. “I expected better of you,” he says. “You’ve been married for how many days now? And you’re already forcing your husband out on that ranch and getting him sick. I can hardly believe it.”

“He didn’t exactly force me, Freddie,” Roger says, laughing.

“Quiet, Blondie,” Freddie says. He doles the tea out carefully into the cups. Brian sighs happily when he gets his. “I think you should be ashamed of yourself, is all.”

“He’s bound to get sick too!” Roger gripes, still laughing.

“I should’ve known you two meeting would be a bad idea,” Brian mutters.

“What’s that, Brimi?” Freddie snaps impatiently.

“Nothing,” Brian says into his tea.

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

“It was nothing, Freddie.”

“Mmh,” Freddie hums, dissatisfied. “I’m keeping my eye on you, May.”

“Only for a good ogle.”

Freddie flings a sugar cube at him, and Roger laughs with his head thrown back.

Roger doesn’t rise the next morning.

He’s fallen easily into the schedule of ranch life. He’s been up with the sun for the last few days, and his absence at the breakfast table sends a stab of worry through John’s chest. Nonetheless he sets the porridge cooking on the stove, putting the pot on for coffee as Eliza settles into her usual seat at the table.

“Have you seen your dad?” he asks her, and she shakes her head as she fiddles with her napkin.

“He didn’t get up,” she says. “Shall I go fetch him?”

He shakes his head, frowning. “No, it’s alright. Will you stir the porridge for me? I’ll just go check on him.”

She nods dutifully and he leaves her behind in the kitchen as he jogs quickly up the stairs, passing the long line of windows in the hallway until he reaches Roger’s door at the end.

Roger doesn’t respond until he knocks a second time, and then it’s just a soft grunt.

“Can I come in?” he asks softly through the wood.

There’s a panicked rustle of blankets. “Yes!” Roger calls. “I’m getting up! Come in!”

John frowns to himself, opening the door and stepping through. The room is still darkened by heavy curtains, Roger sitting up quickly in bed and clutching his head with one hand. Louis is stirring in his crib, but he seems to know better than to make a fuss; he’s hugging his bear in the crook of one elbow and watching his father with wide eyes, his chubby face solemn.

And then John takes one look at Roger, and he understands why.

His eyes are red and puffy and his face is clammy. His hair is practically sticking to his face, one hand still pressed to his temple as if he’s trying to stop an ache. He looks up at John, takes a breath, gets out half a word and then wheezes as he begins coughing harshly.

John crosses the room without a second thought, coming to settle beside his bed. He presses a wrist to Roger’s forehead and then practically recoils at the heat rolling off of him. “Good god, you’re burning up,” he murmurs.

“I’m fine,” Roger insists. “Have you woken Eliza yet? I’m so sorry, I’ll go get started on breakfast right now and we can—”

“Absolutely not,” John says quickly. “You’re in no place at all to be anywhere but in bed. You need to be resting, Roger.”

He knows Roger is feeling worse than he lets on by the way that he doesn’t even argue. He just takes a long, shaky breath as John pushes him back against the pillows, shuddering as his coughing finally subsides. “I’ll be up by noon,” he insists.

John just grimaces. “Only if you feel well,” he says, pushing Roger’s hair off his forehead.

Roger’s eyes flicker shut. “John, could you please—Louis needs breakfast and I don’t—”

“I’ll set them up,” he says soothingly. “Don’t even worry about it. Get some rest, okay? I’ll be back soon with some food for you.”

Roger just lets out a grateful sigh as John pulls the blankets higher over his chest. He turns to scoop Louis up from the crib, wincing a little as his tiny hands immediately clench in John’s long hair, before quietly crossing the room and pulling the door open. He turns the knob before he closes it so that the latch doesn’t make a noise and irritate Roger’s headache further.

Eliza is dutifully stirring the porridge when he re-enters the kitchen. She glances behind him and frowns when she doesn’t see Roger. “Where’s daddy?”

“Upstairs still,” he tells her, settling Louis at the table in front of one of the empty bowls. “He’s not feeling too well today, so we’re going to give him a little space, alright?”

Eliza’s brow furrows, an expression he’s seen on Roger’s face countless times. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay,” he confirms with a smile. “He’s going to be fine. He just needs a little extra sleep so that he can feel better.”

“I got sick once,” Eliza informs him, the spoon making a splatting sound as she clumsily stirs the oats.

“Oh yeah?” he asks her politely.

She nods. “Yeah. Grandma kept rubbing goose fat on me. Are you going to rub goose fat on him?”

He wrinkles his nose. Most of Eliza’s stories tend to be vaguely indecipherable, but he can relate to goose fat poultices on a personal level. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you going to put onions on his feet?”

“What?”

She pushes the spoon against the side of the pot with a dull thunk. “Grandma used to put onions in milk and boil them with pepper and then she would put them in our socks and it would make us not sick anymore. And one time she made me eat the other piece of onion and I threw up. But she couldn’t give Louis any because he’s too little. Are you going to cook onion for daddy and put it in his socks?”

“No,” he says. “I don’t—why onion?”

“Because it’s good for you!”

“Why in your socks, though?”

“I dunno, but I didn’t like it,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “It made my socks smell icky.”

The back door swings open, Brian walking through and glancing around. “John,” he greets. “I was wondering where you were.”

“Roger’s sick, so it’s a slow start to the day,” John says, taking over the porridge stirring from Eliza as she gets distracted by Louis’ baby chatter. It’s done anyway, and he starts scooping it carefully into bowls. “Porridge?”

“Please,” Brian sighs gratefully. “Is he alright?”

John glances at the kids, finding them suitably distracted. “High fever,” he murmurs lowly. “I’m a little worried about him.”

“Keep an eye on him, then,” Brian says.

“You sure?”

“I can watch the herd. I’ll keep them close. You know the dogs do half the work, anyway.”

He frowns. “Gertie is going to birth her calf any day,” he says.

“And I’ll call you if she does,” Brian says patiently, “but right now your husband needs your attention more.”

He nods to himself. “Alright. Thanks, Bri.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

“Any chance you would slaughter a chicken for me so I could make Roger some soup?”

Brian blanches. “Absolutely not.”

He snorts, handing him his bowl before doling out portions for Eliza and a thin serving for Louis. Eliza dumps brown sugar on hers the minute it’s put in front of her, and he pointedly pours her a glass of milk as if that will make the whole thing any more healthy; Louis isn’t quite able to use a spoon on his own but he’s getting better at it, and John settles beside him to help him guide his food to his mouth the way he’s seen Roger do countless times.

The contented morning silence is interrupted by Freddie tromping in from outside to pour himself a cup of coffee, using the tin mug he always carries with him out to the vineyard. “Is Roger not with us this morning?”

“He’s laid up,” Brian offers around a mouthful of porridge.

“You wouldn’t slaughter a chicken for me, would you, Freddie?” John asks.

Freddie winces. “You always make me do it.”

“Well, I’ve got kids to look after, don’t I?”

“Let me look after them,” Freddie says quickly.

John just raises his eyebrows.

“What?” Freddie asks. “I had a sister, you know. I can at least look after them in the morning. Besides, you guys would love to see the vineyard, wouldn’t you?”

“Gah,” Louis says, half of his mouthful sliding out onto his chin.

John sighs, scooping it carefully back into his mouth. “Keep them out of harm’s way,” he says flatly. “No swearing, no blasphemy, absolutely no giving them any of the wine—”

“I’m not a moron,” Freddie says quickly, but his tone is soft. “You worry too much. They’ll be okay.”

“If you’re sure,” John says uncertainly.

“Of course I’m sure. Let us help you.”

John lets out a breath. For a moment he’s blindsided by the love for his friends and the ease at which they pick up the slack. He’s beyond lucky to have people like them in his life.

“Alright. Look after them,” he says, and Freddie gives him a sunny smile.

He ends up slaughtering his own damned chicken in the end, plucking it quickly and throwing it in a pot with some water to make a broth. He checks on Roger over the course of the day, bringing him tea steeped with honey and pieces of dry toast, but Roger gets no better; he grows delirious as morning moves into afternoon, his bouts of fever breaking only for moments.

John is beside himself.

He squeezes a rag out into a bowl, the water steeped with rosemary like his mom used to do for him and Julie when they got sick, before folding it carefully and draping it over Roger’s sweat-slick forehead. Roger moans at the cold water and then relaxes when John shushes him gently.

“Dom,” he says, his voice cracking halfway through.

John shakes his head. “No, Rog. ‘S just me.”

Roger’s face screws up as he whispers a few rapid words in what John can only guess is French, before he stills again.

When he’s not with Roger he’s spending time with the kids. They don’t seem too worried about their father at least, which John can only be grateful for. They’re more than entranced by the barn and the stable, Louis falling over repeatedly into the soft hay while Eliza runs back and forth, asking about each of the horses.

“That’s my horse,” John says to her quietly. He crouches down onto the concrete so that he can talk to her more easily. “Her name is Bella, and she’s just a little bit older than you. She’s six years old.”

“She’s a kid!” Eliza shouts.

“Yeah, she’s still a little one,” he says.

“Bella means pretty,” she informs him.

“Does it?” he asks her seriously. “I didn’t know that. Freddie named her, you know, so I didn’t think about what her name might mean.”

“Did he name her Bella because she’s so pretty?”

“He named her Belisha,” he tells her, and then grins when she giggles. “But I shortened it to Bella, because Belisha is a pretty weird name for a horse.”

“What’s Brian’s horse named?”

“Her name is Lyra.”

“Did Freddie name her, too?”

“No,” he says. “Brian named her after his favorite constellation, I think. He likes it because it’s shaped like a lyre, and because he used to play guitar.”

“Oh,” she says solemnly. “Is Lyra a kid too?”

“She’s about Louis’ age, I think. She’s around two years old, so she still gets really excited sometimes and has a ton of energy just like Louis does.”

She’s silent for a long beat. “Lyra kind of looks like a cow.”

He bursts out laughing. “She does, doesn’t she?”

“Did he get her because she looks like a cow?”

“No. She’s a paint horse, and they tend to look a little like cows. But she’s very smart, and I think she’s a lot easier to ride than a cow would be.”

“Can you ride a cow?”

“I don’t think so.”

Louis toddles up to them before catching sight of Bella where she’s sticking her head over the gate. He gurgles, reaching up for her.

“You want to see her?” Louis asks him.

“Up!” he cries.

“Okay,” he says softly, scooping Louis up from beneath his armpits before settling him on his hip. Louis reaches out a hand and strokes it against Bella’s nose. She holds her head patiently still beneath his pudgy fingers.

“I want to see!” Eliza calls.

“Okay. As soon as Louis is done you can have your turn.”

By late afternoon they’re back in the house. John supervises Louis as he plays with a set of blocks John had pulled out of storage while Eliza chatters to him rapidly about what Freddie showed them in the vineyard. When he’s not with them he’s running upstairs to check on his ailing husband or into the kitchen to work on dinner.

Roger’s delirium fades sometimes around sunset, and John practically collapses with relief.

“How are the kids?” he asks, voice rough.

John traces the back of his hand. “Good. They’ve been missing you,” he adds.

“Did they stay out of trouble?”

“They were the biggest troublemakers alive,” John whispers dramatically, and Roger grunts out a laugh that devolves quickly into a bout of coughing. John can only fuss around him helplessly, offering him a glass of water as he settles again. “Are you feeling better? I made you soup if you think you can keep it down.”

“Where would I be without you?” Roger asks, his eyes drifting shut.

John smiles at him, running his thumb across the back of his hand. “Probably not sick in the first place, since you wouldn’t have been dragged around a rainy pasture all day long. I feel horrible, Roger. I shouldn’t have kept you out in that weather.”

“Don’t feel bad. I wouldn’t have traded it for the world,” Roger says, and when he opens his eyes his gaze is shockingly earnest. “Don’t doubt that.”

John swallows hard. He doesn’t know what to say to that; he just nods, and Roger’s eyes flutter shut again as he sighs gratefully.

John leaves a moment later to go fetch him his soup, doling it carefully into a bowl and making sure there’s plenty of radish and rice in the serving before placing it gently onto a tray beside a fresh cup of tea. He hesitates before plucking a poppy out of the milk jug by the window and placing that down next to the spoon.

“Is that for daddy?” Eliza asks him from the table.

He nods. “Yeah, he’s feeling a little better.”

“Can I come see him?”

He hesitates. “Can you be nice and quiet? He still doesn’t have much energy and we don’t want to exhaust him.”

“I’ll be really quiet,” she says quickly, her eyes wide.

“You can’t get too close to him, or else you’ll catch what he has.”

“I won’t!” She climbs off the bench clumsily, holding out her hands. “I can carry the tray!”

“How about you carry the poppy for me, sweetheart?” he suggests, handing it to her. “That’s the most important thing.”

She nods solemnly, taking it from him.

When they make it upstairs and back into Roger’s room Roger is already sitting up in bed, propped against the pillows and looking exhausted. He brightens immediately when he sees his daughter, smiling at her when she climbs carefully onto the bed, settling near Roger’s knees like she promised.

“I wasn’t prepared for visitors, or I would’ve put on a nice suit and brought out some tea,” he tells her, and she giggles. “Is that for me?”

She hands him the poppy carefully. “It’s for you.”

“It’s very beautiful,” he tells her. “Thank you very much. I promise to keep it forever.”

“I don’t know if it’ll last forever,” John says with a wry smile, “but I suppose it’s the thought that counts.”

Roger just hums gratefully, steadying the tray as John sets it on his lap. “Thank you, my darling,” he says quietly, offering John a tiny smile, and John just smiles back at him, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest.

“It was the least I could do.”

“Hardly,” Roger snorts, picking up his spoon. “Between this and the kids, you’re a blessing.”

“Looking after the kids is hardly a big deal,” John says. “Besides, Freddie looked out for them for most of the morning.”

“Freddie took us to the vineyard!” Eliza says.

“He did?” Roger asks her.

“Yeah! And he gave us grape juice, but it wasn’t wine yet. And we saw the vines, and Louis found a worm. And we met John’s horse. She’s really pretty. Brian’s horse looks like a cow, but she’s really pretty, too.”

“Busy day, huh?”

“They spent every second of it missing you,” John says. “I think we all did.”

“Mmh,” Roger hums. “I guess I better get well quickly, huh?”

They share a smile as Eliza goes back to her chatter. John feels his chest clench as Roger subtly reaches over with his free hand and tangles their fingers together.

After the first few days Roger heals remarkably fast, much to John’s relief. Within the week he’s already back to collecting the eggs in the morning and quizzing Eliza on her French as he cooks breakfast.

John goes back to his own duties, falling into his old farm routines with ease. He takes the herd out early in the morning, waiting until Brian joins him before running a quick patrol of the grounds and then heading in for lunch. Roger is a sight for sore eyes every afternoon, the radiance coming back to his face as his sickness fades. He starts wearing his hair down every day, the golden waves of it falling softly against his collarbones, his shirts now worn loose and casual and showing off the top of his chest.

It’s hard not to stare, most of the time.

Their old routine returns to normal as Roger gets better, but the amount of time John spends with the kids remains the same. He finds himself missing his family by the end of each day, until he’s eager to finish his final rounds of the barn so that he can go inside and spend time with them.

It’s about a week after Roger has recovered, John doling out porridge while Roger plunks coffee cups down on the table, Brian already settling into his seat and Freddie leaning over to begin a serious discussion of absolute nonsense with Eliza, when it happens. Louis is wobbling around on the floor, making great haste across the oak boards to get to John. John pauses as he feels his hands on his trouser leg, glancing down at him and frowning. He’s going to get stepped on down there, and John can only sense disaster brewing.

“Rog, can you—”

“Yeah, I got him,” Roger says, putting down the last mug and scooping Louis off the floor.

Louis immediately cries out, then starts whining and whimpering as Roger tries to hold him. He’s squirming something awful, flailing out his tiny arms.

Roger huffs. “Lou, I’m just putting you in your chair,” he reasons.

“Bapa,” Louis whines, then begins crying for real as he squirms even more, tears streaming down his cherubic face.

“I know you’re hungry,” Roger says. “That’s why we’re sitting down to eat.”

Freddie winces as the shrieks reach new volumes, Brian tilting his head away from the sound. Louis all but bends over backward, his tiny hands grabbing out for John as he wails. “Bapa,” he sobs again.

It seems to dawn on Roger at the same time as John realizes it himself.

He can’t quite breathe right as Roger crosses the few feet between them, holding Louis out to him. Louis quiets immediately, one hand gripping John’s shoulder as he settles against him, still sniffling. His other hand is wrapped tightly around Roger’s finger, keeping him close.

“I don’t think he can pronounce the ‘p’ right,” Eliza says.

“Where’d he learn that word, Lizzie?” Roger asks her.

“I taught him,” she says, dumping brown sugar into her porridge when she realizes that Roger and John are distracted. John can’t even find it in himself to tell her to go easy on it; he’s too entranced by the toddler who’s perched on his hip and yanking on his hair, his sniffles quieting down as he buries his face against John’s neck.

A toddler who apparently thinks of John as his papa.

“But you don’t call him that,” Roger says softly.

“No, because I thought it’s nice to ask first. But Louis didn’t know to ask because he’s still a baby.”

“Of course you can call me that,” John says quickly, a little horrified to find that his voice is choking up. He rocks Louis gently. “Of course you can.”

Roger gives him that look that John is quickly coming to realize is something tender; something soft saved only for their little family—the family that he’s being allowed to become a part of, that’s opening up to let him in—and John feels his heart skip a beat. He has no words to say what he’s thinking.

There’s no way to properly describe the rushing sensation in his chest as Roger looks at him silently, Eliza and Freddie’s chatter filling the air once more, Louis burrowing into his chest and humming to himself, his once-silent and empty house full of life and love; there’s no way for him to express it, so he simply takes Roger’s free hand in his own and kisses his knuckles tenderly.

Roger smiles at him softly, and John thinks that he gets it.

“I don’t want them to forget their mum,” Roger says in the flickering light of the fire.

The kids are in bed for the night, Freddie and Brian doing their final rounds. Roger and John have settled in the living room to finish various little tasks, Roger repairing a hole in one of Eliza’s socks while John does his best to stitch shut a hole in his own coat. His mind is half-occupied with thoughts of the herd, and his stitches are sloppy and uneven as a result.

He puts aside his work entirely when Roger speaks, turning to look at him where he’s sitting not a foot away, resting on the other side of the couch. He doesn’t look up, as focused as ever on his work, and it’s almost as if he’d never spoken.

“They won’t,” John says softly. “You won’t let them.”

Roger sighs softly, twisting the yarn in his fingers. He lets it rest on his lap and turns to face the fire. He’s beautiful; he’s always beautiful, but especially like this.

“Will you tell me about her?” John asks, barely above a whisper. Roger turns to him, surprised. “Please,” he adds.

Roger’s mouth twists. “What do you want to hear?”

“Anything. I want to know so that if they ask I can tell them. And I want to understand.”

“You don’t want to know about things like this, John,” Roger sighs.

“I do,” he insists. “Are you expecting me to be upset because you loved someone else? I don’t mind, Rog. You have so much passion. You have so much love to give.”

Roger hesitates, side-eyeing him warily. When John doesn’t say anything else he sighs softly. “I did love her. I still do,” he says, his voice gentle. He glances at John, but when John doesn’t react he continues, worrying the yarn between his fingers again. “We were probably too young to fall in love that way, but it didn’t change anything. Not for us.”

“What was her name?” John asks him.

“Dom,” he answers. “Dominique.”

His voice goes almost soft as he says it, and it makes John sigh. He tries to imagine him for a moment: Roger, young and careless, so unrestrained and free in his own love.

“She was elegant. She wasn’t upper class, but she carried herself like she was. She was smart in a way that half of my classmates weren’t. She didn’t know anything about arithmetic or science and she could barely read, but she paid attention to politics and world events. She had opinions on just about everything and was willing to prove it, which of course my family didn’t like,” he adds with a wry smile. “She was a good mother. Even when she was exhausted and we had no money, even when my parents were trying to force me away from her, she always kept on a happy face for Eliza.”

“Did you live together?”

Roger nods. “Nobody liked that, but we hardly had a choice. It was hard. I learned to cook and do the washing, and she taught me other things over time. When she became pregnant with Louis I started taking care of the household on my own. My parents drew the line at that. Apparently it was beneath them to have their son doing housework. We moved into my family’s house, but that just made things worse.” His mouth twists. “They hated her.”

“How’d you meet her?” John asks him, doing his best to pull him out of the painful memory.

“At a dance hall,” Roger says. “You know how class distinctions fall away at places like that. The first night nobody cared, but when we saw each other outside of that day people began to have questions. But none of that matters now, not really.”

“Of course it matters,” John says softly.

Roger purses his lips, putting aside the yarn and turning to face him. He watches John’s face for a long moment before taking a breath, about to say something.

The back door clatters open. “John!” Brian calls.

Roger sits up straight, his eyes wide. Brian rushes into the room, still catching his breath, and when John sees him anxiety stabs through his chest. “What is it?” he asks him.

“It’s Gertie.”

In the end it goes by fast—much faster than he thought it would, and that never fails to surprise him. The minute he and Brian enter the barn the hours begin to fade into a single blur, minutes ticking by in the tense atmosphere. He shuts his eyes, and when he opens them Gertie is laying exhausted in front of him, his own eyes blurry as he looks down at the stillborn calf, his head resting in John’s lap. 

He’s lost calves before. Cow births are finicky things. Sometimes they happen all on their own. Other times it takes much more work—takes much longer, dangerous minutes slipping away.

Brian had taken Lyra out of the stable and set off immediately down the road to the nearest animal doctor while Roger had rushed off to put the kids to bed, and then he’d hovered wide-eyed in the barn as Gertie paced and laid down and stood back up and laid down again, restless as the calf began to emerge, back feet first.

John had felt the first tinge of real worry then, and he’d sent his husband quickly away.

He’d helped deliver the calf alone. They couldn’t wait for a doctor; not like this, when the calf would likely suffocate. And he had, in the end. He’d been unlucky from the start and hadn’t been able to take a single breath of fresh air, not even when John tried to force it into his lungs through his own mouth, not even when he’d done everything he could to make him breathe.

In the end he’d just died.

Brian takes the stillborn outside to bury behind the barn. John sniffs hard, his eyes still streaming as he walks to the basin in the corner and scrubs the blood and fluid off his arms, rubbing his skin clean until it’s red and inflamed. It’s only once he’s clean that he goes back to her, sitting beside her in the dirty hay and stroking her soft ears as he cries.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her quietly.

She just huffs against his leg. Her warm eyes drift shut when he strokes her nose. He can’t bear the thought that she’s getting old now, too old to bear calves. This might be the last calf she ever carries, and because of him it’s all a waste. He leans down until he can press his face against her head the way he used to when he was younger, his tears falling into her pelt.

In the end Roger comes and finds him, wrapping his arms gently around John’s frame and kissing the back of his neck. In the end Roger leads him carefully out of the pen and pushes a glass of water into his hand. In the end Roger pulls him into a hug until his eyes dry up, his sobs subsiding finally.

“She’s getting old,” he says finally, Roger watching him carefully all the while, sitting beside him on a bale of hay. “She’s the last one that my father helped birth. The very last one.”

Roger doesn’t say anything, but he takes John’s hand.

“The ranch was his and my mom’s,” John continues. “They were going to have a big family. They wanted about a dozen kids. Instead they got two.”

“What happened?” Roger whispers.

“Mom got sick,” John replies, his eyes burning. “She died a little while after my sister was born. Julie lives back East, now. She went to stay with an aunt and never came back.”

“And your dad?”

“Died when I was twelve.” He swallows hard, but he’s run out of tears now. “A few neighbors looked out for me and helped out with the property until I was old enough to do it myself. I’ve been mostly on my own since then. Brian and Freddie have been blessings. _You’ve_ been a blessing.”

Roger just sighs, squeezing his hand. “That’s why you agreed to marry me,” he guesses. “You wanted a family. You didn’t care that I had kids—you _wanted_ kids, didn’t you? You want to be a father.” John nods hesitantly, and Roger lets out a breath. “You didn’t even really mind if we didn’t fall in love. You were just tired of being alone. You wanted someone to have around.”

“A companion,” John says softly.

Roger pulls him close, arms wrapped around him, their bodies pressed together warmly. He doesn’t say a word, just holds him and breathes against his shoulder, the rushing of air a soothing rhythm.

John presses closer, inhaling the smell of him, and closes his eyes.

They fall asleep in the barn, curled together in the bales of hay. John can hardly be annoyed when a crick in his shoulder wakes him as the sun is just beginning to rise—not when he opens his eyes to the sight of Roger content and asleep, his hand unconsciously clenched in John’s shirt like he’s afraid of letting him go.

The next day passes by slowly, John’s brain cloudy from the late night before. The dogs catch the scent of a coyote, chasing it all the way to the northern fence. John traces the strap of his rifle where it rests on his shoulder, but he doesn’t have the heart to go hunt the animal down. After last night he doesn’t want to see any more death.

He keeps his eyes on the herd instead, watching like a hawk until the sun starts to set and it’s time to bring the cows in. He rides Bella into the stable, drying her coat carefully and removing her blanket and saddle before giving her a few extra carrots for her hard work. When that’s done he makes his way to the barn. He starts his rounds and takes his time, the routine of it soothing something restless within him. He makes sure each pen has enough water and grain, studying the younger calves carefully for any sign of illness. Gertie is already laying down, and he feels his heart twist. He pauses for a long moment to stroke her ears.

His tasks finally finished, he leaves the barn and jogs through the rain toward the house. The porch offers a welcome shelter from the weather. The rain against the tin roof is a calming sort of white noise, and now that he’s not standing in the downpour he’s not quite so cold. He tugs his jacket off, hanging it on the back of the doorknob before settling on the cushioned bench on the back porch to go to work tugging off his muddy boots.

Roger finds him as he does. He sticks his head out through the back door, smiling when he sees John and immediately walking toward him, one of their nicer cups clutched in his hand and full of amber liquid. He settles on the bench beside him and takes one lock of John’s hair in his fingers to give it a playful tug.

“What?” John asks, perplexed.

“Your hair gets wavier when it’s raining,” Roger says quietly. He cups John’s cheek, smiling when John pushes into the warm touch. “You’re all cold.”

“I’m wet,” John grumbles. “Hi.”

“Hi. Need a towel?”

“No,” he says. “I’m alright.”

“Maybe this will help,” he says, holding the cup out. “For you.”

He takes a sip, his eyes fluttering closed as the sweet taste blooms across his tongue. It’s apricot wine, the kind that Freddie only makes during years that the harvest is particularly good, and that they only drink on the ranch on rare special occasions. It’s John’s favorite, and the fact that Roger must have gone out of his way to ask Freddie for something that would cheer him up warms his chest in a way that the wine never could.

“Share it with me,” he says softly, handing the cup back to Roger, who smiles and curls closer toward him.

“I should run you a bath,” Roger says quietly. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

John watches him as he drinks. “You’re too good to me,” is all he manages to say, and Roger glances over at him in surprise.

“Likewise,” Roger huffs. He fiddles with the glass in his hands, his thumbs rubbing over the designs in the crystal. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you. I’m not giving you back, though,” he adds with a laugh. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“It’s mutual,” John says.

Roger doesn’t respond. John takes the moment to turn to look at him, studying his profile in the grey light. Roger turns to him, sensing his gaze, and John gets lost in studying his eyes. It should be awkward. With anyone else it would be, but somehow with Roger it’s okay. It feels good to be seen; to study, and to be studied in turn.

“I expected you to be different,” Roger says finally, still watching John carefully.

John tries not to let the twist in his chest show on his face. “Different how?” he asks carefully. “If I’m not doing right—”

“Stop that,” Roger says softly. “Of course you are. That’s what I’m saying, John. I expected you to be…”

“What?” John asks him as he trails off.

Roger takes a slow sip of the wine, gathering his thoughts as he hands the cup off to John. He turns to look out at the grass, the light of the rain playing across his face. “I didn’t expect you to be a gentleman,” he says finally. “I expected the worst, I suppose. For you not to care about knowing me. For you to be harsh or cruel, or to not care about the kids at all. To not care about being a father to them,” he adds, meeting John’s eyes. “To not care about being a husband.”

“Of course I care about that,” John says, hushed. “Why on earth wouldn’t I?”

“Because my own family didn’t,” Roger says immediately. “Because my own father cared more about being commander of the house than about being a dad. Because he never cared about loving his children at all, let alone his wife or his grandkids. And it’s not a stretch, John. You don’t seem to realize that I got unbelievably lucky by finding you.”

“I’m only doing the bare minimum of what’s expected of me,” John says.

Roger shakes his head. His hand comes up to cup John’s cheek suddenly, his palm warm and soft and his eyes entrancing as they stare earnestly into John’s own. “Stop saying that,” Roger whispers. “Stop it. I don’t want to hear it. You’re doing so much more than that. The bare minimum would be giving us a place to sleep and something to eat. The bare minimum would be a situation in which I’d be constantly weighing the odds of what’s acceptable—a marriage to a cruel man, maybe, and that’s what I expected when I wrote to the paper, but as long as he didn’t hurt the kids that would be okay. I could bear it, at least until they were through with school. _That’s_ the bare minimum. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

John nods numbly, leaning further into his touch. He can’t imagine a world in which anybody—no matter how cruel they are or how cold of heart—doesn’t take one look at Roger’s family and want nothing more than to provide for them—to care for them, to love them.

“The bare minimum would be all I could ask for when what I’m getting is enough to have _our_ children happy and healthy,” Roger murmurs. “What I’m getting is you, providing everything we could ask for and more, keeping _me_ beyond elated every single morning I wake up here, knowing that you’re nearby and every day falling a little more in love with you.”

John just stares at him, his heart racing. “You mean that?” he says quietly.

“Let me prove it to you,” Roger whispers.

He gives John time to back away, if there were ever a world where he’d want to. John holds fast, just watching him come closer, and Roger doesn’t hesitate again before leaning in.

When he kisses him it’s gentle, almost as gentle as their first kiss was in the courthouse, but an underlying heat sends John’s head spinning. Roger presses closer against him, the warmth of his body tangible but just out of reach. He leads John closer with the hand still on his cheek, tilting his head gently as he kisses him again, this time a little firmer, a little bolder, his mouth warm and apricot-sweet.

John feels dizzy as Roger does it again and again, pressing closer to suck on John’s lip, and he’s had his fair share of kisses behind dance halls and taverns in the past but that doesn’t make the feeling any less of a shock. A tiny moan escapes his throat before he manages to quell it, his hand darting up to close gently around Roger’s wrist.

Roger leans away, his eyes dark and hazy and still trained on John’s mouth, and another coil of heat twists through John’s gut. John traces his thumb over the soft skin of Roger’s wrist, still holding him close as he ducks forward to lean their foreheads together.

“Was it too much?” Roger whispers.

John shakes his head gently, the motion rocking Roger’s where he rests against him. “No,” he whispers. “I—please know that you could give me no greater happiness than by loving me.”

“But you don’t feel the same,” Roger guesses.

“I began falling in love with you the moment I laid eyes on you,” John says honestly, and this close he hears Roger’s sharp intake of breath. “How could I not? It’s not that, believe me.”

“Then what is it?”

He looks at him finally, Roger’s eyes wide and inquisitive as he watches him, and swallows. “I’ve never done this before,” he says softly. “Not—not serious courting. Not what comes with it.”

Roger pulls back slightly. “You’ve never…”

John just shakes his head, his cheeks heating slightly under Roger’s scrutiny. Roger doesn’t look upset or confused, though; he just ducks forward, hesitating again, and then presses their lips together when John doesn’t push him away. It lasts barely seconds, sweet and innocent as anything.

“Do you want to?” Roger whispers. 

And he has to carefully think about other things, because the sudden implication of that has his mind whirling, cheeks heating immediately. Roger must notice because he sends him a dazzling smile, tracing his thumb over John’s cheek before pressing a kiss to that same spot—and really, John is fairly sure that he’ll never get used to the way that a brush of Roger’s touch can send heat fizzing up under his skin.

“We can slow down,” Roger whispers. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” John replies, shaking his head. “No, I want it. I just—I need you to show me. When we do,” and his cheeks flame as he stumbles upon his words. “Whenever that is. Not now, not today, but whenever.”

It just makes Roger smile more. “I can be gentle with you. Is that what you want?”

He exhales sharply, his head spinning.

“Want me to take care of you, honey? Show you how much I want to dote on you?” Roger whispers.

“Roger,” he gets out, and he isn’t sure if it’s a plea or a warning.

“You’re cute when you blush like that.”

He shoots him a frustrated look and Roger laughs.

“Alright, alright.”

“Later,” John says. “Just…later.”

“Okay,” Roger says, smiling wryly. He leans back, his wrist twisting in John’s grip until he can tangle their fingers together. He leans back against the wall, taking the cup when John offers it and raising it to his lips. His throat bobs as he swallows; John’s mouth goes dry at the sight. “Later, then.”

John huffs, willing his racing heart to slow as Roger hands the cup back to him, his thumb rubbing over the back of John’s other hand all the while.

Soup is already simmering on the stove when they step inside the house ten minutes later, and it makes the whole room warm and homey. He settles gratefully into his seat, Eliza on one side and Louis at the head of the table. Roger sends him a private smile as they begin to eat, and John can’t help but grin back.

Roger pushes open John’s door that night just as John is finishing getting ready for bed. He raises his eyebrows hesitantly. “Can I? After last night I don’t want to be apart from you.”

John just nods, his mouth dry, and a moment later Roger is sliding into bed beside him, his body gloriously warm against John’s own. Their eyes meet across the pillow, Roger’s eyes warm when he looks back at him, and John feels something like happiness bubble up in his chest.

Roger leans forward to kiss him then, the press of his lips soft and sweet. It’s so good it sends him reeling; it’s perfect, just the gentlest touch, and he sighs into it.

He doesn’t want Roger like this, though. He doesn’t want him as a punctuation mark on the end of a long day. He doesn’t want the first time to be like this.

When Roger pushes closer he meets him halfway, softening his touch and slowing it down. Roger sighs contentedly, reading it as the sign it is, and when they part again he shuffles further into the sheets until he can tuck his face into John’s neck.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers.

John reaches over to turn off the lamp, letting the blue darkness of the country wash over the room. Roger sighs against his skin and he pulls him closer. He runs his fingers once through the soft strands of Roger’s hair, and between one breath and the next the two of them are drifting off to sleep.

Ranch life goes on.

Buyers come and go, money wandering into the books and back out again. A handful of the calves are reaching selling age, and he manages to find buyers without any problem. It means long trips to town, leading the young cows all the way there.

He sees her as he’s crossing back through town, three of his young bulls successfully sold to one of his buyers down the way. She’s in a pen, whinnying softly as her handler feeds her bits of apple, the blond ends of her tail shining in the sun as she flicks it back and forth.

He tugs Bella off the road and she snorts at him, ears flicking away a fly. A moment later he’s tying her up to one of the fence posts and starting slowly toward the woman.

She turns as he approaches, looking him over quickly before offering him a smile. “I know you. You own the Deacon ranch, don’t you?”

He nods. “Are you new around here?”

“I just came in about six months ago. Married a woman who lives a ways down south toward the bay. You know where the Shirley farm is?”

He nods; he knows it. “You raise good stock,” he says, because it’s true; he’s never bought a horse from them but he’s seen them about town: proud animals, gloriously strong and patient.

The one in front of him looks to be no different.

“How old is she?” he asks, nodding at the horse.

“This one? Her name’s Thunder. She’s a little past two now. Are you in the market?”

He shrugs. “I need a gift for someone, is all.”

“Must be a special someone.”

“My husband,” he says, and she grins at him when he can’t quite manage to tamp down a smile. “He hasn’t done much riding before. How is she?”

“Well, she’s a bit of a beginner herself,” the woman says. “She’s good and patient though, for her age. Damned lively and playful when she wants to be. You know how mustangs are.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“You shouldn’t worry with her. She’s got some life, but she’s not aggressive. Never once bucked a rider, never once reared back.”

He looks her over: her dapple grey coat fading elegantly to a dark charcoal at her hooves, her mane dirty blond, her eyes warm and calm.

“How much for her?” he asks.

And that’s how he ends up spending nearly all the money he just made on his bulls by buying a single horse, her posture strong and proud as she prances jovially beside Bella, the older horse snorting unhappily at the intruder.

He wants to keep her as a surprise, but that plan is destroyed as soon as he makes it back to the ranch. Roger is sitting on the porch, Louis sitting on his lap while Eliza plays just in front of the steps, an empty wash bucket sitting at the base of the stairs and the clean laundry drying on a line strung from one side of the porch to the other. Roger looks up as John approaches, a smile spreading across his face sweetly, and it only widens as he sets his gaze on the mare.

“I thought you were heading to town to do away with animals, not to collect more of them,” Roger calls jokingly.

John laughs under his breath as he climbs down from Bella’s saddle, tying her quickly up to the fence post before untying the new horse’s reigns from the saddle. “I couldn’t resist, really.”

“Had a small fortune burning a hole in your pocket?” Roger asks, sitting Louis down on the steps and walking over slowly. “She’s gorgeous.”

“I’m glad you think so. I figured you could use a horse of your own.”

Roger blinks, stopping dead. “What.”

“She’s for you,” John says, a little unnecessarily. “So you can learn how to ride, and—you know. I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped in the house. You’re free to go wherever you want on the land, or go into town if that’s what you want.”

Roger just stares at him.

“And she’s young, but she’s really gentle,” John hurries to say, “so you won’t have any trouble learning with her. And horses are really loyal, especially if you have them for life. So she’ll be around for years and years to look out for you and to go places with you, and,” he trails off, shrugging. “I thought you might—”

“Thank you,” Roger breathes suddenly, and then he’s crowding into John’s space and cradling his face, pressing a kiss firmly to his lips. “Thank you so much. God, John,” he laughs. “Good heaven. Are you going to teach me how to ride?”

John grins. “I’d love to,” he says, and Roger kisses him again. And if he ruins it halfway through by smiling against John’s mouth, well. John can hardly blame him. 

Roger takes to horseback riding like a duck to water.

It takes a few tries for him to learn how to get into the saddle by himself, John waiting warily for him to wobble in the stirrups so that he can catch him if he falls. He needn’t worry; after a few false tries Roger manages to do it, and the smile on his face is blinding as he strokes his hand through Thunder’s dirty blond mane.

By the end of the first day they’re galloping slow circles around the pasture, Roger grinning as they pick up speed, and John thinks he’s never seen something so radiant. He looks utterly alive, joyously happy to be so free. His thighs are tense around Thunder’s flank, his legs strong and stretching endlessly downward into the stirrups, and he wears confidence well. It sends something like desire twisting through John’s gut.

“It’s a damned fine horse to be having on a ranch,” Freddie says from beside him, casting him a knowing look.

John shrugs. “He deserves a fine animal like that.”

“Are you planning on getting the kids horses like that as well, then?” Freddie asks. “You’ll shop us out of house and home.”

“But they’ll have some gorgeous looking steeds in their homelessness. Mark my words,” John says, and Freddie throws his head back and laughs.

Roger dotes on his horse when he’s not riding her, brushing her coat and offering her bits of apple to eat, and it gets to the point that she immediately brightens the minute he enters the stable, poking her head out between the bars and scraping her hooves against the hay.

Bella gives John a dirty look as he passes, and he can only roll his eyes. “What?” he mutters to her.

She huffs, wrinkling her nose.

“Don’t give me that,” he tells her, offering a carrot. “Just because I don’t spoil you rotten doesn’t mean that I don’t love you. Besides, I’m sure that Roger will start spoiling you rotten too, so I needn’t worry about it, anyway.”

“Who are you talking to?” Roger asks him, wandering over.

“My horse,” he replies, and if that’s not a sorry indication of the state of affairs then he doesn’t know what to say.

“Oh,” Roger says, turning to Bella. “Would you like a piece of apple, pretty girl?”

John raises his eyebrows at Bella, his point having been proven. She just ignores him, her rider all but forgotten in the face of a treat.

Within a week Roger is confident enough to make the journey into town on his own. John misses him all day, watching the kids in the morning and then trading off with Brian and purposefully walking the herd as close to the front road as he can manage, keeping an eye out as if Roger will reappear any moment. He needn’t have; Roger doesn’t reappear until it’s nearly evening, the cows already settled in the barn while John polishes his boots on the back porch.

Roger grins at him when he sees him, not even bothering making it all the way to the stables. He simply rides straight up to the porch, hopping gracefully down from Thunder’s back and walking up to where John is sitting.

Joh grins at him as he approaches. “Welcome home,”

“I’m happy to be back,” Roger replies, ducking down and kissing him sweetly. It sends sunshine blooming through John’s chest, and he smiles up at him as Roger pulls away. “I got Eliza and Louis enrolled in the local school.”

John blinks. “Both of them?”

“Uh-huh. The schoolteacher said Louis is old enough if he’s starting to talk on his own. My afternoons are going to be all yours.”

“I didn’t realize you’re so excited to start helping out with the herd,” John teases.

“Oh, yes. Among other things, anyway,” Roger breathes.

John huffs out a laugh. “Put Thunder inside for the night and maybe then we’ll talk.”

Roger’s eyes crinkle when he smiles at him, shaking his head as he starts toward the stable. John gives his boots one last rub-down before turning back toward the house.

He has soup simmering away on the stove, a loaf of bread that Roger had baked a few days ago sitting out on the table next to a lump of yellow butter. He’d left he kids in the living room while he was outside, and they’re still there when he goes to check on them, Louis listening raptly to Eliza as she pushes a toy horse in front of them.

“Sweetheart, are you ready for dinner?” he calls.

She looks up, nodding. “Is daddy home?”

“Yeah, he just came back. Can you go wash up for me?”

She nods, immediately running off and sprinting upstairs, as John reaches down to pick up Louis.

“Papa,” he says solemnly.

John smiles at him, gently unwrapping his pudgy fingers from his hair. “Hi, honey. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” he says.

Roger breezes in through the back door just as he’s entering the kitchen, grinning brightly at the two of them. He pauses to kiss John’s cheek, and then laughs as Louis takes it as an opportunity to press a wet peck against Roger’s own. “Dadda,” he says loudly.

“Hi, Lou,” Roger laughs. “Did you miss me?”

“Yeah!”

“I missed you too,” he says. “I’ve got big news for you and Lizzie.”

“Wash up first,” John says. “News later. Go wash your hands, you ruffian.”

“I’ll show you a ruffian.”

“Not before you wash your hands!” he says, laughing when Roger sticks his tongue out at him. “Don’t follow your dad’s example on hygiene,” he says to Louis seriously.

“What’s ruffian?” Louis asks.

The first day of school is marked by Roger fussing over the kids’ clothes all morning long, straightening Louis’ little collar and brushing his fingers through Eliza’s hair until she gets annoyed and starts fussing right back. When the wagon finally comes to pick them up they both begin loudly crying.

“It’s alright,” Roger tells them soothingly. “It’s just for the afternoon, and then you’ll be back here again for supper! And you’ll have so much fun. You’ll learn so much.”

“I wanna stay here!” Eliza screams.

John sends Roger a frustrated look from where he’s crouching on the porch. He’d knelt to comfort Louis, but the boy seems to be having no inclination to let go of him. He’s sobbing quietly into John’s shoulder, and John can already feel tears and drool soaking through his shirt. He rubs his hand between Louis’ shoulder blades soothingly. “Louis, honey, you’re going to have such a fun adventure at school,” he says quietly.

“No,” Louis sobs, his hands clenching into John’s shirt hard. “I don’t wanna.”

“Lizzie,” Roger says quietly. “Come on, sweetheart. Be strong for your brother, okay? You two are going to be together the whole time, and we’re going to be so, so excited when you come back. We’ll have all sorts of treats for you, okay?”

Her sobs subside finally to be replaced with a pout as she hides against Roger’s leg. It’s a parody of the way she’d hid when she first met John, and John can’t help but notice that she’s a bit too big for it now. “I don’t want treats, I want to stay here,” she says quietly, her voice pleading.

“You’ll have a great time at school,” John tells her soothingly, carefully pulling Louis’ fingers off of his shirt, still rubbing his back all the while. “I used to love going to school. But Louis is really scared, and he needs someone there who’s a friend to him so he feels better. Can you do that for him?”

She huffs but turns to him, one hand still clenched in Roger’s trousers. John presses a kiss to the side of Louis’ blond head, his heart breaking a little when Louis looks at him with teary red eyes. “I know, honey,” he tells him softly, “but we’ll see you very soon.”

“I don’t wanna,” he whimpers.

He tries not to let his chest twist at that, handing Louis off to Eliza, who holds his hand in her own and leads him toward the wagon. He presses his face into the soft fabric of his bear as he goes, all but hiding once he’s finally on the wagon.

“We’ll see you both very soon!” Roger calls to them. “Have a good day!”

Neither of them respond, and John blinks tears out of his eyes carefully. He stands as the wagon starts moving, wrapping one arm around Roger and pulling him into his side. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so guilty in my life,” he murmurs to him.

Roger huffs out a laugh even as he wipes his own eyes. “Just wait,” he warns. “As soon as they’re back they’ll just be begging to go again. We needn’t have worried.”

His words prove true as soon as the kids come home. The two of them chatter nonstop about everything, from the friends they’ve made to the things they’ve learned, and by the time they’re being put to bed John feels more exhausted than he would’ve believed.

Roger curls up against him that night, the same as the last, and offers him a sweet kiss before promptly dozing off against John’s chest. He’s heavy and he snores, and John can’t help but think that if he never spends another night away from Roger again he’ll be the happiest man in the world.

The next morning Eliza and Louis are all but rushing through their breakfast and their French lessons, bouncing in their seats impatiently as they wait for the wagon to come to pick them up. Instead of sobbing to John and Roger and clinging to them desperately, they’re all but racing to the road as the driver pulls up in front of the house. So really, Roger was absolutely right.

Now that the kids are in school Roger has more time to himself, and he starts going into town more and more frequently. John, who had never liked the sales side of ranching in the first place, can only be grateful; it takes all but a week for Roger and Freddie to become an airtight duo, and by the end of the month sales are booming on not only cattle but eggs, chickens, chicks, milk, wine and even some of the excess vegetables from the small farm.

“He’s a dream,” Freddie announces loudly as he hops down from the empty wagon late into the afternoon, swaying slightly on his feet as he does.

John holds out a hand to steady Roger as he climbs down from the bench. He takes it happily, smiling at John warmly, his cheeks pink and his eyes a little glassy. “Freddie, have you been getting my husband drunk?” he asks pointedly.

“He got himself drunk, dear,” Freddie chides. “Actually, it was the barkeeper at the local tavern. We sold him a few of our extra vegetables and he let us try the new shipment from Kentucky in return. It’s not my fault you parental figures are a bunch of lightweights.”

“We sold three more calves,” Roger says brightly, his eyes flicking momentarily to John’s mouth and then back again. “I said we’d bring them to town as soon as they’re weaned off. They paid half in advance.”

“Quite the salesman, aren’t you?” John asks him teasingly, grinning when Roger’s blush grows a little darker.

“Quite the charmer, really,” Freddie says. “He’s got a bit of a following. Pretty newcomer, decked out in fine silks, prancing around town and selling his wares…”

John’s arm tightens around him possessively. “I hope they’re not letting their eyes linger too much.”

“You can sit and look pretty,” Roger says. “I’ll fight them my damned self.”

“He will,” Freddie says, and then laughs. “Some guy came up and asked him if he was ‘Deacon’s pretty little southern belle,’ and he—” he breaks off, chortling. “He—”

“Don’t tell me you hurt anyone,” John says with a laugh.

“I didn’t!” Roger gripes. “I swear I didn’t! Hurt his pride, maybe, but can you blame me?”

In the evenings, after the kids are asleep, they sit out on the porch and talk. The days are getting longer now that summer is approaching, the land growing that much more peaceful and warmer with each dusk. Sometimes they pass a cup of wine back and forth. Other times they just sit in silence, their sides pressed together, and enjoy each other’s company.

And some days, when the weather is particularly good and the sunset particularly glorious, they go riding.

The wind is rushing in from the sea by the time they reach the western edge of the property, the poppies closing their glorious petals as night approaches. The horses are breathing heavily, Bella’s coat hot against his palms as he dismounts. Roger is already standing on solid ground, running his hands over Thunder’s nose gently. He grins when she presses into the touch.

“You’re becoming quite the rider,” John tells him as he gets closer.

Roger grins and lets go of Thunder’s reigns. “Who do you think I learned it from?”

He reaches forward to grip John’s jacket, reeling him in closer and dragging him in for a kiss. His energy is contagious, the giddiness in the way he kisses practically intoxicating, and John sighs into it as Roger licks past his lips. He gets a hand around his waist to pull him closer and Roger moans softly into his mouth before laughing softly and pulling away. He tangles their fingers together, raising their hands in the air and placing his free hand on John’s shoulder, and the next second he’s waltzing them gently through the grass, humming under his breath.

John laughs. “What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing with you,” he says immediately, pulling away to lead John into a careful twirl. When they come together again Roger settles into a leading position, tugging John against him. “We never got a wedding dance, you know.”

John laughs even harder as he trips over Roger’s foot and sends the two of them stumbling. “We’re going to fall.”

“No we’re not,” Roger singsongs, grinning. “I’ll catch you. I always will.”

“Sap.”

“Mmh. Want to hear something even sappier?”

John raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Roger leans closer, his eyes flitting to John’s lips before back to his eyes again. He twists his hand in John’s own until he can hold it close, kissing it once before holding it against his own heart. “Marry me,” he says.

“We’re already married,” John says, letting out an incredulous laugh.

“Are we?” Roger teases.

“Yes!”

“Maybe I want a do-over,” Roger says with a grin. “Maybe I want to marry you for real. Not just a paper in a courthouse—I want to do it properly.”

“Properly?” John asks. “What’s that, then?”

“Dancing,” Roger says immediately. “Throwing rice. I want to wear white. I want to kiss you like I mean it,” he says, leaning forward and nipping at his lip to emphasize the point, “and I want a real wedding night,” he breathes. “I want to wake up beside you the next morning. I want a ring. I want to be _married,_ John,” he whines.

“We’re already dancing,” John observes. “You’re wearing white.”

“I never got a ring.”

“I have one for you at the house,” John says. “It didn’t feel right to give it to you back then. I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

Roger shushes him with another peck. “I have one for you, too,” he murmurs.

John swallows. “Rice?” he asks.

Roger stares at him for a long moment before bending down, tearing a handful of grass out of the soil and throwing it over John’s head.

John laughs. “Hey!”

“Close enough,” Roger says with a grin, wincing when John grabs some off his hair and throws it back at him. “Great, now you got me, too.”

John snorts and shakes the grass out of his hair. He can’t stop smiling, giddy with it. “Kisses?”

Roger is back on him in a second, hands tangled in his hair and tugging him downward, and John’s head is spinning once more. Their lips press together, hungry with it, and John’s knees feel weak. He pushes into Roger’s touch and lets him in, lets him claim and take. Whatever it is, John will give it. He’ll give anything; he doesn’t care what.

“John,” Roger whispers when they pull apart. One of his hands tugs at John’s hair, and the slight sting of it is intoxicating.

“I want you,” John says quietly. Roger gasps, and heat rushes through him all at once. “I want you so bad. Let me have you.”

“You have me.” Roger licks his lips. “What, you want everything?”

He nods. “Please. Let’s go home.”

Roger’s eyelashes flutter, his gaze tracking John’s lips as he says the words, and a grin spreads across his mouth at the implication. “Alright,” he breathes, nodding. “Yeah, let’s go home. Come on. I’ll race you.”

The sun is setting over the cliffs, the sea rushing far, far below as they ride rapidly back toward the eastern side of the ranch.

Roger rides _fast_ when he gets the chance, fast and fierce, Thunder’s head tossing at the joy of getting to sprint full-out, her rider’s hair flashing as it streams behind them, the shiny white material of his coat flapping like a pair of wings. He turns as he goes, turns to look over his shoulder and send John a grin, radiant in the dying sun. And then he’s urging her forward, faster and faster and faster, and the wild spirit in her rises up to it as the two of them shoot forward.

He’s never felt so free, like this. He’s never felt so wild, and all at once he wants to yell with it; watching as Roger easily outpaces him, the pale streaks in Thunder’s tail catching the light as she moves, Roger laughing and hunching over like a jockey, the horses’ hooves pounding against the soft soil as they try to outstrip one another, he’s never felt so good.

Roger beats him to the stable. Of course he does. John rides Bella straight into the building and toward her pen, Thunder’s saddle and reigns already hung up, and the minute he dismounts Roger is pressed up against him and pushing him against the gate.

John laughs into the kiss, reaching up to cradle Roger’s face and steady him. He leans back against the wood, losing himself in the pleasure of being close to him for one long moment before Bella huffs and stomps on the hay behind them.

“Rog,” he breathes, still laughing. “Baby, come on. I’ve got to get her settled.”

Roger just pecks his lips one last time before stepping away, grinning at him before going to work on Bella’s reigns.

They get the stable closed up in record time, and then they’re all but stumbling back to the house as they fight the urge to keep as close together as possible. He has to pause on the porch, the feeling of Roger’s mouth against his own too good to resist, but he finally manages to break away as pleasure fizzes in his head.

This will be so much better in a bed.

They all but stumble up the stairs, Roger laughing as they hit the wall against the landing and sending the pictures rattling against the wall. He shushes John quickly, pausing to listen, but nobody stirs; the kids must be dead asleep by now, blessedly.

By the time they reach John’s room Roger has calmed down slightly, for all that John only feels more on edge. Roger seems to be able to sense it, and he pauses for a long moment to kiss John sweetly, his previously eager pace slowing down into something more comfortable. He pushes John’s jacket off his shoulders gently, redirecting his lips to John’s now-exposed throat once the heavy material is out of the way, and John gasps.

“Will you wait here for me?” Roger asks him. “Just for a moment. I’ll be quick.”

“Where are you going?” John asks, his head spinning.

“Just to get a few things,” Roger says. “I promise. Thirty seconds at best.”

“Alright,” John murmurs. “As long as you’re quick, then.”

Roger presses one last kiss against his neck before disappearing.

Without Roger pressed against him the previous nerves return tenfold. He fidgets, unsure of what to do with himself, before settling on the side of the bed and toying with his shirt. Should he undress to save time later?

But then he’ll be sitting here naked. That’ll certainly do wonders for his nerves.

He doesn’t have to think about it for long. True to his word, Roger comes sliding back into the room a mere twenty seconds later, practically skidding against the floorboards from his speed. He holds a short bottle of oil in one hand and a tiny velvet pouch in the other. The pouch gets tucked immediately into the pile of fabric that makes up John’s jacket on the floor. The bottle goes onto the bedside table.

“There we are,” Roger says. He steps immediately into the v of John’s legs and tugs at his collar teasingly. “Where were we?”

“What’s the pouch for?” John asks him.

“Don’t worry about it.” He unbuttons the first button of John’s shirt, pushing the fabric impatiently to the side as he goes, and John huffs out a laugh. “That’ll come later.”

He doesn’t have a response for that, most likely because the sheer dexterity of Roger’s fingers has him lightheaded. He watches as Roger undoes the last of the buttons. His hands drift up to rest against Roger’s hips, and the warmth of his body through his trousers is grounding.

Roger leans forward to kiss him chastely. “Breathe, baby,” he says with a smile.

“I am breathing,” John says, frowning, but when he makes a point to exhale fully before taking a deep breath, he realizes maybe he wasn’t.

Roger doesn’t say anything, just kisses him long and slow and untucks John’s shirt from his trousers so he can pull it off of him finally, and John starts as he gathers his wits about him in time to tug at the hem of Roger’s own. Roger just laughs, pulling away long enough to pull it off over his head, and John barely gets a good look at him before he’s sinking to his knees and digging his fingers under John’s waistband.

“Roger,” he says, eyes wide.

“I know,” Roger murmurs, smiling up at him. “Let me.”

He lets Roger work his trousers off, tugging his socks and boots off with them. His cock springs free, and he feels his cheeks heat as Roger gasps and nudges his knees further apart to settle between them.

“Fuck,” he whispers, kissing the inside of John’s thigh. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a really pretty cock?”

“Roger,” he says again, half-pleading and half- warning.

“I guess they haven’t, have they?” Roger asks, looking up at him with big blue eyes as he wraps his fingers around his cock, sliding his foreskin down and pressing an innocent kiss to the base of the head.

John’s breath catches in his throat. “No,” he whispers. “No, they haven’t.”

“You have no idea how lucky you’ve made me, John,” Roger says, and then he swallows him down.

John gasps harshly, his fingers tangling in the sheets. Roger’s mouth is soft and hot and perfect around him, his tongue the perfect pressure against the bottom of his cock. He pulls away to suckle gently at the head and John can’t quite hold back a keen in the back of his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, reaching out to cup Roger’s face—not to guide him, not to lead him, just to ground himself in the feeling of his skin—and Roger blinks up at him as he bobs down against him once more, his throat working around the tip. John’s head falls back between his shoulders. “Roger, God. You’re so good to me.”

Roger just hums around him, the feeling of the vibration making his breath catch in his throat, and he sighs long and slow as he tries to gather his wits about him. Arousal is making it harder and harder to think about anything but Roger, the heat of his mouth and every single place in which the two of them are touching.

Roger’s hand slides up between his legs, cupping his balls gently and rolling them in his hand, and all at once John is grabbing his hair as pleasure jolts up his spine. “Stop,” he says quickly. “You’re going to make me come if you keep that up.”

“I’d love to see you come,” Roger says, his voice a little rough. He nibbles at the sensitive skin on the inside of John’s thigh, and John gasps.

“Not yet,” he breathes. “Not before you.”

“Bold words,” Roger laughs, standing up to kiss him. He grunts into John’s mouth when John tugs him closer, scooting back on the mattress to give Roger room to crawl over him. He tugs at Roger’s waistband, and Roger laughs again. “Alright, alright,” he says tugging his trousers off and letting them fall off the bed to the floor. “Are you going to let me take care of you, then? Let me make you feel good?”

John nods numbly.

Roger presses him down into the sheets, straddling him as he leans forward to kiss him, and John gasps as the motion has their cocks rubbing together. “Let me ride you,” Roger breathes against his lips. “I want that gorgeous cock inside me.”

“Fuck,” John gasps, his eyes flitting down to the bruised red of Roger’s lips. “Yes. God, yes.”

Roger pulls away long enough to reach for the tiny bottle still propped up on the bedside table. John only catches on to what he’s planning just before he does it. His fingers are closed around the bottle, carefully working the cork free, when John’s hand on his wrist stops him.

“Let me,” John says.

“You’ve done it before?”

John nods, his cheeks heating. 

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he replies, tugging the bottle gently out of Roger’s grip, and Roger lets him.

He uncaps it carefully and spreads some of the liquid inside across his fingers before pressing the cork back inside and letting it fall against the mattress. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as beautiful as the sight of Roger settled above him, his eyelashes fluttering gently as John’s knuckles graze across his cock. He settles him with his other hand on his hip, holding him still as he carefully circles his hole with a slick finger, and Roger gasps.

“Okay?” he whispers.

Roger nods. “Come on.”

Roger is tight—tight and warm and perfect, and his eyes flutter shut as John pushes his first finger inside. He rocks back into the touch, his lips parting, and John feels his own heart pounding as he watches him.

“Like that?”

“More. Give me more. Come on.”

“What if I want to take my time with you?” John breathes, and when Roger leans forward he catches him with a hand against his cheek.

“John,” Roger breathes, and his breath goes ragged as John slips in a second finger and begins stretching him open in earnest.

“What if I want to watch you squirm like this?” John whispers against the corner of his mouth. “You look so pretty, you know. So pretty for me.”

Roger huffs and kisses him hard, his lips practically frantic against John’s own. John lets him have it—lets him push against him mindlessly, translating his own pleasure and need into their kiss, even as he slips his fingers into Roger’s hair to soothe him.

By the time he’s four fingers deep Roger is a panting mess, sweat beginning to gather at the small of his back. He bites John’s lip hard as he pulls away. His mouth relocates instead to John’s neck, then to his shoulder.

“Ready for me?” John asks him.

“I’ve been ready,” Roger says impatiently. He reaches for the bottle where it’s resting against the sheets.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” John murmurs uncertainly.

Roger huffs, then gasps when John twists his fingers inside of him. “You won’t,” he breathes. “I promise you won’t.”

John isn’t quite ready for the oil-slick hand that’s wrapped suddenly around his cock. Roger’s hands are soft and hot and perfect, and he can’t help but throw his head back and gasp when a twist of Roger’s wrist has his palm skidding across the tip.

“Let me show you,” Roger whispers into his skin. “Let me make you feel good, huh? You don’t have to do a damned thing.”

His mouth goes dry as Roger lowers himself, the head of his cock catching on his swollen rim before just breaching it. And then Roger is pressing downward in one smooth motion, gradually lowering until his thighs are pressing flush against John’s hip bones, and he has to reach out and hold onto him just to avoid thrusting upward sharply and ending this all way too early.

Roger shudders. He lets his hands rest against John’s chest, his breath coming ragged as he gets used to the feeling, rocking lightly back and forth after a long moment and sighing. John bites his own lip to keep himself from moving.

“You feel so good,” Roger moans quietly, and when he opens his eyes they’re practically completely black. His lips are kiss-bruised and bitten red, and John can’t look away. “So big inside of me, honey, you have no idea how good you’re stretching me out. I could do this forever.”

“I don’t think I’m going to last like this forever,” John wheezes. “Fuck, Roger.”

“I know,” Roger breathes. He begins moving for real finally, rising up before dropping down onto his cock again, gradually building up his small movements into full thrusts. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

He builds a strong pace, his rhythm quick and hard, the bed rocking with the sharp movement of his hips. When John finally loses himself and thrusts upward hard, burying himself in the tight heat of him, Roger’s mouth drops open completely as his arms weaken, leaving him half-bent over John’s chest.

“There you are,” John whispers, and Roger’s eyes flicker open, hazy and blue. He reaches down to grip Roger’s hips and does it again and again, holding him in right where he wants him and reveling in the groan that Roger lets slip. “How’s that?”

“Good,” Roger breathes. “Yes. Fuck yes, I love you.”

He lets one hand wander up to trace the arch of Roger’s back, his palm fitting perfectly into the soft dip of it, and Roger sighs.

“John,” Roger breathes. “Fuck, I can’t—my legs,” he gets out, his voice breaking.

John nods, holding his hips still as he thrusts up into him. “Let me, then,” he says simply.

Roger just nods, his eyes hazy and distant and flickering shut at a particularly hard thrust.

He whines when John stills and pulls out of him clumsily. A moment later he understands what John is trying to do and allows himself to be rolled gently in the sheets, letting John settle in the space between his legs and wrapping his thighs high around John’s hips. It’s warm and comfortable and perfect to be held like him like that, and John has to duck down to kiss him slowly as he hikes one of Roger’s legs further up around his waist.

“Okay?” he whispers, reaching down between them to guide himself back inside.

Roger just nods, watching him closely as he does it.

Their faces are mere inches apart like this, if that; he’s looking into Roger’s eyes as he pushes back into him, and he can see every tiny sensation of his own pleasure mirrored on Roger’s face as he feels them. Roger’s hands are restless like this, tracing the sides of John’s ribcage up to his shoulder blades, to his arms where they’re resting on either side of Roger’s head, to his face, and back down to start the whole thing over again.

The frantic energy of it falls away at the first thrust, their bodies rocking together in unison as Roger’s head falls back in pleasure, and all John wants to do is drag it out: drag each little sound out of Roger’s throat, take him slow and steady until the two of them are losing their minds and never leave the bed again.

Roger is gasping against his cheek in time to the squeaking of the mattress. He reaches up finally to tangle his fingers hard in John’s hair and pull him in for a kiss. It’s slightly off-center, their lips jostled by the rocking of their bodies, but John doesn’t mind; he doesn’t mind that they can do practically nothing but pant into each other’s mouths, clumsy with pleasure.

“John,” Roger breathes, a question.

John just nods, already knowing. Pleasure is mounting at the base of his spine, completely impossible to ignore, and all he wants to do is see the same feeling reflected back on Roger’s face. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy, his mouth red and hanging open and sweat beading at his hairline, and John wants to devour him. He reaches down clumsily to wrap his hand around Roger’s cock, pumping it in time with his thrusts, and Roger throws his head back as he moans.

John leans down to kiss his open mouth and revels in the way Roger chases his lips distractedly. He mouths at the side of his throat instead and bites a dark bruise into the salty skin there, pulling away to look at it before leaving one to match at the juncture of his neck. He wants so badly to let go, but something is stopping him; he can’t, not yet.

“Good, baby?” he breathes. “What do you want?”

“Harder,” Roger pants. “Give it to me. Come on. _Please._ ”

He leans far enough away that he can hike Roger’s leg further up on his hip before slamming into him _hard_. Roger moans loudly enough that John is worried about the sound waking the kids, and he immediately leans down to seal his mouth against Roger’s own and effectively muffle the noise. He needn’t have bothered; it only takes two more thrusts before Roger is arching against him, gasping sharply through his nose as his cock spurts in John’s hand, making a mess of their chests.

John tries to kiss him through it, but he isn’t quite ready for the way Roger tightens deliciously around him. It takes him by surprise, pleasure exploding over him as he continues to press into Roger’s tight heat. He can feel Roger’s hands in his hair now, breath still ragged against his ear and his hands stroking soothingly over his neck as sparks flash behind his eyelids.

When he comes back to himself Roger’s legs are still wrapped around him, his hands still tangled in John’s hair. He’s not moving, his breath still light and quick, and John presses his face into the sweaty skin of his neck.

“Fuck,” Roger says succinctly.

John just groans. He pulls out of Roger, grimacing at the feeling and the noise, and Roger’s breath catches. John’s shirt is still laying on the side of the bed, and he uses it to wipe the two of them off before curling on his side, his legs tangled with Roger’s, the two of them facing each other.

Roger leans closer to kiss him, slow and languid. It’s different than the ways Roger has kissed him in the past and John revels in the knowledge of it: that he knows now that Roger kisses him sweetly from day to day, hungrily when he’s turned on, distracted and messy when they’re fucking—when they’re _making love—_ and afterward he kisses like this, slow and warm and familiar, like he wants to crawl inside John and never leave.

And he almost wants to let him. He wants to stay like this forever.

They can’t, though—not forever. John has plans. He still has one last thing he needs to do.

He breaks their kiss with one final peck before reaching over him and pulling open the drawer of the bedside table. Roger cranes his head to watch him do it, gasping when John returns to their previous position with a cylindrical tin box big enough only to hold one thing.

“Oh,” Roger breathes.

John pauses, worrying his thumb over the lid. “Alright?” he asks.

Roger nods, wide-eyed. “Hold on,” he says quickly, backing quickly out of the bed.

John watches as he stumbles, his foot caught in the sheets. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. You broke my legs.” He crouches and digs through John’s jacket until he finds the pouch he’d stashed there earlier, climbing back into bed.

“Okay. I want you to know that my dad bought a ridiculously expensive, gaudy engagement ring for me to give you as thanks for taking me off my parents’ hands,” he starts.

John grins and leans forward to kiss him. “Because having you around is such a hardship?” he murmurs.

Roger’s lips quirk up. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Anyway, I also want you to know that I pawned the thing, because I thought it was terrible and five minutes into knowing you I knew it didn’t suit you, anyway,” he continues. “And I didn’t want to…to carry a piece of my old life into my new one, I guess. I didn’t want to look at a symbol of our love and know that it was chosen by the people who saw you as a blessing for a completely different reason than I do, I guess. People who see our marriage as a way to get rid of a family, not as the start of a new one—who don’t care about the love we’ve built, about the trust we’ve built.”

John feels his own eyes watering, and he reaches forward to cup Roger’s cheek. Roger leans into it, taking a breath before meeting John’s eyes again and smiling.

“So I used the money to find you something else. I wasn’t sure what to choose when I first went to look. I didn’t know what you’d like or what would suit you. It only occurred to me more recently that no ring would be good enough for you, anyway,” he adds with a wet laugh, tugging the pouch open.

The ring comes tumbling out onto his palm, a thick silver band lined with three sizeable diamonds, and John feels his breath catch as Roger slides it onto his finger. It explodes into rainbows when it catches the light, and he can do nothing but stare at it.

“Jesus, Roger,” he breathes finally.

Roger laughs nervously. “You like it?”

“Fuck. Yes, I like it. How am I supposed to follow that up?”

Roger leans forward to kiss him giddily, smiling against his mouth. “You know I’ll love anything you give me. The fact that it’s from you is what I care about.”

That much is true. John already feels more secure with the weight of the ring on his hand, a comforting reminder of Roger’s love.

“Alright,” he replies, huffing out a laugh as the two of them settle again. He fiddles with the box in his hands. “God, I had a whole speech prepared all those months ago.”

Roger just laughs, his eyes wet.

“Alright,” he says again. “There’s an old superstition that rings can carry bad luck and passing them down through generations isn’t a good idea. You and I have had our share of bad luck, and I didn’t want to tempt fate,” he adds. “But I figured special circumstances call for special solutions.”

He opens the box carefully, revealing a simple gold band holding a square garnet.

“This was my grandfather’s, and then it was my father’s after him,” he murmurs. “I know it’s not much, but I just thought that if I was going to do my best to build a life that you, Louis and Eliza deserved, the least I could do was give you something of my family’s—to welcome you as _part_ of my family, because there’s nothing I want more than to build a family with you. I want you to be a part of every aspect of my life. I want to be with you always.”

Roger is crying by the time he’s done, his eyes big and wet.

“Marry me, honey?” he whispers, and Roger nods quickly.

The moment the ring is settled snugly onto his finger he’s kissing John hard. His lips tremble slightly with the feeling behind it, the warm pressure making John’s blood fizz. John just rubs a thumb against his damp cheek until he settles, holding him close and breathing him in all the while.

“Good?” he whispers finally when they part.

“Yes,” Roger sniffles. “Good. Jesus. So good. When did you become such a romantic?”

“You haven’t seen the half of it,” John says with mock seriousness.

Roger laughs wetly. “I love you,” he whispers, his eyes hazy and heavy-lidded and trained on John’s mouth as he speaks. “I love you so damned much.”

John kisses him, slow but firm, licking easily into Roger’s mouth, his head spinning with the fact that he’s allowed to have this. “I love you too,” he breathes when he pulls away, and Roger sighs as if he’s in utter bliss.

They wake up late the next morning, the sun already streaming in through the windows. Roger is warm and heavy beside him, limp and dead to the world, and the feeling of their skin pressed together is divine. John pulls him closer to kiss him softly but Roger just grumbles in his sleep.

He sits up and stretches and doesn’t let up until his spine pops four times. He dresses slowly and keeps an eye on Roger to see if he’ll wake up. When he doesn’t John just leans down to press a kiss against his cheek before leaving the room, closing the door silently behind himself.

His body is achy and sore in the best way after the night before. He winces as he goes downstairs to put the coffee on and get started on making breakfast. There are fresh eggs on the windowsill and he cracks them into a pan before scrambling them carefully.

He’s just about done when he hears a noise behind him. He doesn’t turn around, smiling down at the pan when moments later he feels Roger’s warm chest pressing against his back, his hand wrapping low around John’s waist. His other comes up to play with his collar, tugging it gently aside until soft lips can press against a spot where John knows Roger left a mark last night.

“Good morning,” John whispers, tilting his head to give him better access.

Roger smiles against his throat before pulling away to rest his chin on John’s shoulder. “Good morning. I love you.”

“I love you too. Breakfast?”

“Mmh. I’ll go wake the kids up.”

John smiles softly as Roger pulls away and leaves the room. Not ten minutes later their kitchen is full of noise as Eliza and Louis come bounding down the stairs, Louis stopping to hug John’s leg while he doles the eggs out onto plates. Roger hands him a cup of coffee and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth as he sits down at the table, and in that moment, kids chattering around them and the sun rising on the pasture outside, he’s never felt happier.

Freddie and Brian come filing in through the back door not long after, Brian immediately making a beeline for the coffee pot on the stove while Freddie wanders toward the kitchen table. He climbs over one of the benches, straddling it as he reaches for a piece of bread, and then freezes.

“Oh my god,” he breathes.

John frowns, concerned. “What?”

“John, oh my _god,_ your hand!” he squeals.

John stares at him for another second, then blinks and smiles as he remembers. He looks down at his hand, shifting it back and forth to watch his ring sparkle in the sunlight. “You like it?” he asks cheekily.

“Roger, you—” Freddie yelps, breaking off. He turns to Roger, who’s grinning as he holds up his own left hand to display his ring. Freddie immediately grabs his wrist and drags it closer to inspect his ring, grabbing John’s hand not a second later and nearly pulling him out of his seat with the force of it. “Oh my god, you’re _married._ ”

“They were already married,” Brian says, confused.

“No, they got _actually_ —” he says, breaking off. His eyes water rapidly. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna cry.”

“Language,” John says mildly, and Roger laughs, giddy.

“Oh Jesus,” Freddie breathes, fanning his eyes rapidly. “You _guys_ , you actually went and fell in love, didn’t you?”

Brian stops behind him, looking down at him worriedly. “Are you alright?” he asks, offering Freddie a cup of coffee.

Freddie sighs. _“No.”_

“What’s wrong with Uncle Freddie?” Eliza asks loudly.

Roger grins. “Your Uncle Freddie has just realized that I love your papa.”

“He didn’t know?”

“No!” Freddie says. “Ugh, no, I didn’t. I thought you guys were working really well but now—ugh. I had so much hope that this would happen.” He grabs a napkin, dabbing at his eyes rapidly. “I just didn’t think you two would get so lucky. I have never met two people who deserve each other more than you do. You both deserve the very best in life and I am so, so elated that you’ve found each other.”

Roger laughs again, turning to look at John, and John can’t do anything but smile back at him and sigh. Roger holds his left hand out and John meets it with his own left hand just to feel the way their wedding rings clink together. Roger’s smile grows at the feeling.

“Easy, Freddie,” Brian says with a wry smile, sitting down beside him.

“You can’t blame me, can you? I never got to give a best man speech at their wedding. This is the least I could do! Besides, just look at them!”

John tears his eyes away from where he’s been gazing across the table at Roger, lost in the pretty glittery blue of his eyes. “What?” he asks.

“You’ve done this all backward,” Freddie says, sniffling again. “God, and you didn’t even get a proper wedding.”

“We got a proper wedding,” John murmurs, sending Roger a smile. “We did it all. We just did it a little late, is all.”

“When?”

“Last night,” Roger supplies. “It was perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

“Last night?” Freddie echoes. “But you can’t just go back to work today! You need a honeymoon!”

John starts, looking at him even as he traces his thumb across Roger’s knuckles. “Honeymoon?” he asks.

“Yes! Time away to celebrate your love!”

“We hardly have time for that,” Roger says quickly. “We have work to do, and there’s the kids.”

“He does have a point, though,” Brian says. “Just a little bit of time away, even if it’s only one night. It’s bad luck to start a marriage without a honeymoon. That’s what my mom always says.”

“Brian, you _romantic_ ,” Freddie says, throwing his arms around him.

Brian laughs. “It’s true, though.”

“But we’ve already started a marriage without a honeymoon,” Roger says.

“Yes, but,” Brian says, trailing off and tilting his head. “I mean, you know. It wasn’t really the same, was it? Now it’s…I don’t know. It’s more official this time, somehow. I mean, it’s obvious.”

John raises his eyebrows at him. “I didn’t think you’d be taking Freddie’s side in this?”

Brian huffs a little, even through his smile. “I just mean he’s right. You guys deserve to celebrate. Let’s go to town tonight, at least. I’ll drive you out there so you don’t have to worry about getting home. Freddie can look after the kids.”

Roger stares at him, wide-eyed. “You’d do that for us?”

“Of course.”

“It’s what you deserve,” Freddie says, still leaning heavily against Brian. “Go ahead. Even if it’s the only wedding gift that we can give you, you deserve a night off. I’d love to give you that.”

Brian nods earnestly, his eyes wide.

John turns to Roger and sees him already looking back at him, his eyebrows raised. “I think it’s a great idea,” Roger says with a slow smile. “It would be nice to have a night off like that. John?”

John nods slowly, trying to tamp down his own excitement. “Yeah,” he says, his own happiness reflected on Roger’s face. “Yeah, I think that would be really great.”

The saloon is busy, the murmur of voices swelling and falling around him. He’s making his way through the crowd to a table where he spotted Brian earlier, sitting with a group of local ranch hands. The alcohol running through his blood is making it a little more difficult than usual, blurring the world around him and making his smiles come that much easier.

He narrowly avoids tripping over a chair as he reaches the table. “Alright?” John asks the people clustered there.

A couple of them raise their glasses and cheer when they see him, and John laughs jovially. It’s hard not to be jovial in an atmosphere like this: out on the town after dark for the first time that he can remember, the flow of whiskey making his head spin, the knowledge that the kids are safe and looked after while he and Roger spend their time here—it’s all getting to his head a little.

He looks for Roger, searching him out in the crowd as he sits down. He doesn’t have to look for long, his eyes drifting to him automatically. Roger is in one of his nicer suits tonight, navy blue trousers with fine stripes and a vest to match, but his shirt is casually unbuttoned and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. The curve of his forearms, tanned from months of working in the sun, makes John swallow hard.

“You’ve seen him too, then?” the man beside him grunts. John recognizes him distantly as one of the newer farmers to the area; older than John, but a child in his knowledge of the land.

“Who?” John asks him, nonplussed.

The man snorts. “That pretty blonde thing at the bar.”

“Pretty blonde thing?” he asks, amused. Roger would throw a fist if he heard himself referred to as a thing, but he doesn’t say it.

“Yeah,” the man breathes. “Real looker. He’s prettier than half the girls on this side of the Mississippi, and he looks to be twice as rich.”

“You haven’t talked to him, I presume?”

The woman on the man’s other side snorts. “Someone like that? He wouldn’t give us commoners the time of day.”

John hums. “What makes you so sure?”

“Oh, you think he’ll spend any time with you?” the man asks, raising his eyebrows. “I bet you your next drink that you can’t even get him to crack a smile.”

“Deacon’s married,” the woman scoffs.

“So?”

“ _Happily_ married. He won’t take you on that.”

“Make it two drinks if I can get him to kiss me,” John says, and the woman’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Fine,” the man says. “Have at it.”

John drains his whiskey, letting the glass thunk down on the table. The leers of the people behind him fade into the general noise of the bar as he walks Roger’s way, settling into the stool beside where he’s standing.

“Would you believe it?” he murmurs lowly, and Roger immediately turns to look at him, his eyes dark. “A few guys just bet me two drinks that I couldn’t get the gorgeous blonde at the bar to give me a kiss.”

“Did they now?” Roger asks, making a show of looking around. “Funny. I can’t spot any gorgeous blondes.”

“Really? I’m looking right at him.”

Roger laughs, his head thrown back, and his carefree happiness makes John smile. “Well, he must be one lucky guy to be getting your attention,” Roger says. “That’s all I’ll say.”

John raises his eyebrows. “You think I have a chance with him, then?”

“I think so.”

John lets a breath whoosh out between his teeth. “Well, only if you’re so sure. I don’t know if I should go through with it, though. See, I’ve got a husband.”

“Oh?” Roger asks, raising his eyebrows. “You’re married, are you?”

“Yeah,” John says. “Quite happily, really. We’re very much in love.”

“Your husband,” Roger purrs, stepping into his space, “must be one _very_ lucky gentleman.”

“Not nearly as lucky as I am,” John tells him, and he steadies Roger with a hand on his hip as Roger sways. “I’ve managed to marry the most beautiful, thoughtful, clever, passionate man I ever could have imagined.”

“It sounds like you love him a lot.”

“I do,” John breathes.

Roger grins at him, his eyes glittering. “Maybe you should prove it to him, then,” he whispers.

John tugs him closer, pausing when they’re just a hair’s breadth apart, and Roger ducks forward to close the final gap. It’s sweet and chaste, and they ruin it by smiling against each other’s mouths halfway through; nonetheless the feeling of having him close is heavenly, Roger fitting perfectly in his arms and in his space.

“Hey, Roger?” he whispers when they part.

“Yeah?” Roger replies.

John grins at him. “Would you like a free shot of whiskey?”

* * *

_"And still there are some prejudiced and old-fashioned people who will persist in thinking that love, the flower and fruit of all centuries, is not made to measure; that marriage, the sweet seal of civilization and religion have stamped upon it, is a tender contract whose gentle chains can not be fastened by advertisement; that hearts can not be measured for marriage."_

_-The Cincinnati Enquirer_

_November 9 th, 1878_

**Author's Note:**

> Again, a special thanks to Runninfortocome for this idea! Mail order brides were a fairly common occurrence in the nineteenth century, and apparently particularly around the 1870’s going forward. A lot of this fic is drawn from historical accounts and stories, particularly those revolving around the Matrimonial News, a paper which is credited with upwards of 2,600 marriages over the course of the era. An early match.com, if you will.
> 
> I had such a wonderful time writing this fic. I think it’s my favorite thing I’ve written in a very, very long time. It's come together so quickly and I'm so, so pleased with the end result. Please let me know if you liked it; it means the world!
> 
> I'm also always open to talk on tumblr @sweetestsight and would be happy to answer any prompts, questions, or elaborate on this au further. Come drop in! 
> 
> Until next time <3


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